


“You Know My Name (Look Up the Number)”

by AhmedA01



Category: 1960s Music Scene RPF, British Singers RPF, Music RPF, Revolver - The Beatles, Rock Music RPF, The Beatles
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 19:57:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 37,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1238941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AhmedA01/pseuds/AhmedA01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> A collection of phone calls and incidents throughout the years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Obviously. Unfortunately.

**August 1957**

Gentle strumming filled the room as Paul sat forward on his unmade bed, one leg folded under him while the other rested on the floor below, foot tapping in time to the chord changes. Brow furrowed, he concentrated on the movement of his fingers along the frets, pausing every now and then to pluck the pencil that rested behind one ear to jot something down in the notebook that lay open in front of him. With a satisfied look he’d then replace the pencil before turning his attention back to the acoustic he held in his arms.

All of a sudden, a faint ringing sounded throughout the house, its incessant trill seeping beneath the closed door of Paul’s room. Hands stilling for a moment allowed the young man to hear the distant noise quite clearly and he placed the guitar down carefully on the soft mattress before vaulting from the bed. He flung open the door to his room before running down the wooden stairs in a clatter of hurried footsteps.

Paul skidded to a halt in front of the phone in the hallway, quickly snatching up the receiver before the ringing stopped.

“Hello?” he answered breathlessly, gasping slightly as he collapsed against the wall.

“Macca?” the voice on the other end answered.

Smiling slightly, Paul slid down and sat cross-legged on the floor with his back against the wall, cradling the phone behind one ear before greeting, “Hey John,” still slightly panting from his short sprint.

“Are you okay, mate?” John asked, his voice sounding concerned over the line. “You sound a bit winded. Was I interrupting anything?”

Shaking his head in the negative, Paul answered. “No,” he began. “I was just…”

His explanation was cut short by John’s teasing voice. “Because I can talk to you later,” he said with a slight grin in his inflection. “Let you get back to whatever it was that you were doing that got you so out of breath. Perhaps let you clean up before you call me…” John trailed off.

Sighing, Paul pinched the bridge of his nose, before replying. “What do you want Lennon?” he asked a bit of irritation seeping in.

John’s warm chuckle came through the phone. “Nothing really,” he answered. “Mimi’s out for the day, so, I wanted to see if you’d like to come over. I got the new Elvis LP…”

Paul sat up straight excitedly, “You have Loving You?” he asked incredulously, his eyes widening in surprise.

“That’s the one,” John responded proudly.

“How’d you fucking manage that?” Paul asked, giddy and practically bouncing from his position on the floor. “All of the local stores have been out of that bloody LP for weeks!”

“I have my ways…” John trailed off mysteriously, his voice crackling through the phone.

Narrowing his eyes as he cocked his head to the side, Paul asked suspiciously, “These ‘ways’ wouldn’t be lifting the album of some poor sod, now would it?”

“A man never divulges his secrets,” John answered smugly, the sound of his arrogant voice bringing a reluctant smile to Paul’s face.

Shaking his head in wary acceptance, Paul laughed softly before turning back to the phone. “So,” he said, “When do you want me to come over?”

“As soon as you can, mate.”

Looking at the clock across the hall the younger man replied. “I’ll be there in 10 minutes.”

“All right,” John answered. “Don’t forget your guitar.”

“When do I ever,” Paul scoffed, with a roll of his eyes. “Bye.”

“Bye,” John echoed, before hanging up.

Paul slowly got up and dropped the receiver onto the cradle before rushing up the stairs, only to descend seconds later with guitar held tight in his hands. With a quick look around the house, he walked into the kitchen and snatched up a pair of keys from the kitchen counter before letting himself out, closing the back door shut behind him.

**December 1957**

Light flooded into the small kitchen through the sparkling clean windows as a breeze wafted through the open back door. A slightly older woman with graying dark brown hair stood by the kitchen sink, humming softly to herself as she washed the dishes, plates and glasses clinking together merrily as she submerged them under the warm soapy water.

Sitting at the kitchen table, John leaned back in a comfortable wooden chair, his feet propped up so that his scuffed boots rested beside a cup of tea, steam curling into the air and creating wispy tendrils of vapour that hovered above the surface of the sweet milky beverage. Beside it was a plate of scones, the golden brown biscuits slathered in honey butter, melting deliciously from the warmth of the scones. Left hand cradling a phone to his ear, John gestured wildly with the other, half-eaten scone held between his fingers and raining crumbs all along the polished floors with each grand wave of his arms.

“And so I said to the bastard,” John said animatedly, his face slightly flushed with excitement as he regaled the person on the other end with his story. “‘I couldn’t care less about sodding Churchill, you fucking git.’”

A light chuckle came over the line in response. “What did he say to that?”

“Not a fucking thing,” John crowed as he took a bite of the scone, talking into the phone with his mouth full. “He just stared at me, stuttering like some bloody halfwit before I…”

“John! Language!” the older woman exclaimed, as she turned from the sink, interrupting John’s narrative. Narrowing her eyes at her seated nephew, she ordered, “And take your feet off the table!”

“Yes, Mimi,” John responded dutifully, before turning back to the phone, not bothering to lower his feet. “Anyway,” he continued. “After he fucking stood there for what seemed like ten minutes, I just got up from my desk and fucking left.”

Now laughing uproariously, the person on the other end asked, “Just like that?” he gasped out between chuckles.

“Just like that,” John answered smugly, as he paused to take a sip of tea from the quickly cooling cup.

“Did no one try to stop you?” the boy over the line asked in admiration, his voice somewhat awestruck.

“Come now,” John replied arrogantly, his head cocked to the side. “Who’s going to fucking stop me?”

Before the person on the other end could answer, Mimi stalked over to John and pushed his feet off the table, standing before him with her hands on her hips.

Tumbling forward, John caught the edge of the table in his chest, the impact causing him to wince in pain. Holding one hand to the bruised skin, John righted himself, sighing heavily before turning away from the phone. Not bothering to cover the mouthpiece John addressed his aunt, “What now, Mimi?” he asked irritated.

Glaring down at her nephew, Mimi gestured towards the phone. “Who’s that you’re talking to?” she asked icily, a frown marring her wrinkled features.

“Paul,” John answered simply, with a roll of his eyes, as he sat back again, just barely stopping himself from propping his feet back on the kitchen table.

Mimi closed her eyes as she let out a long suffering sigh. “That doe-eyed common boy?” she asked, running a hand over her tired face.

Nostrils flaring slightly, John glared back at his aunt defiantly, “Yes, Mimi,” he replied angrily. “So what if I am?”

The older woman fixed her seated nephew with a glare before simply narrowing her eyes, the legendary Lennon anger having no effect on her. “Don’t glare at me, John,” she chastised bitterly, scowling deeply. Throwing her arms up in the air she continued, “What have I told you about being friends with those kinds of people?”

John simply sighed. “Oh, give it a bloody rest, Mimi,” he responded lividly. Sarcastically, he continued, “He’s a good lad. He always listens to his dad, does his homework and eats all of his vegetables.”

“That’s not the point!” Mimi shouted. Untying the apron from around her waist, she threw it down on the table as she walked out of the kitchen. Turning back to look at her nephew she responded scathingly, “People of that sort will only bring you down,” she remarked before departing.

Wincing slightly, John turned back to the phone with a sigh. “Sorry about that, Paul,” he apologized with a shrug. “You know how she is. Bloody snobbery,” he mumbled half to himself.

An incredulous tone in his voice, Paul repeated, “‘Doe-eyed common boy?’”

A smile broke out on John’s face as he pictured Paul’s wide-eyed gaze before replying mischievously, “Well, you do have quite large brown eyes.” Sniggering softly, he continued, “Like Bambi’s mum.”

“Shut up, Lennon,” Paul warned over the line.

“Little wittle Paulie of the lovely eyes,” John cooed, as if speaking to a baby. “Looking oh so very pretty and sweet.”

“Oh sod off,” the younger man growled in an attempt to sound menacing.

Laughing loudly, John pictured Paul’s scowling face, which only made him laugh harder. His shoulders shaking, the dark-haired young man simply sat back in his chair, the phone nearly slipping from his grasp as he continued to laugh. After a minute or two, the guffaws subsided, leaving behind the occasional chuckle.

A slightly amused tone in his voice, Paul asked, “Are we quite done now?”

“Oh, yes,” John said, still snickering. “Anyway, want to practice today?” the older boy asked, as he popped the last bit of the scone in his mouth, licking the butter and crumbs from his fingertips.

“Sure,” Paul answered instantly, not bothering to hide his eagerness. “My house or yours?” he asked.

Glancing briefly towards the doorway that Mimi had stalked out of, John sighed inaudibly. “Uh, we should probably meet at your place,” he answered after a moment’s hesitation.

“All right then,” Paul’s voice crackled over the line. “I’ll leave the back door open for you. Just let yourself in when you come around.”

“Ta,” John replied. “Bye Macca, see you in a bit.”

“Bye,” Paul responded, as the line went dead.

Looking at the phone in his hand for a few minutes, John stood and hung up as well, moving across the kitchen to do so. With a sigh, he picked up his empty cup and plate and deposited them in the sink, running the water over the dirty dishes. John gazed out the window for a second or two before he began to chuckle to himself softly as he pictured Paul in his head, large deer eyes gazing up at him.

Still laughing, John quickly exited the kitchen and strode towards his room, taking the stairs two at a time in his haste. He grabbed a worn leather jacket from the open closet before quickly snatching up the battered acoustic guitar that had been resting against the bed. Stuffing a pack of cigarettes in his back pocket, John locked the door to the room behind him, and rushed out of the house, slamming the door as he ignored Mimi’s queries of where he was going.

Whistling aloud, John walked down the street, guitar swinging in time to his stride as the sun shined down upon him.

**July 1958**

The moon glimmered softly in the quiet city, casting shadows upon the old crumbling buildings. Empty cars sat parked along the curb, as a few people milled aimlessly about, some walking quickly towards home while others staggered through the streets, their gait hampered by one too many drinks. One such person was John, who stumbled gracelessly into a phone booth, gripping the walls hard in an attempt to regain his shaky balance before picking up the handset and dropping a few coins into the slot. Unsteadily, he dialed a familiar number, swaying slightly in the booth as he listened to the ring on the other end.

“Hello?” a sleepy voice answered, accompanied by a loud yawn.

“Paulie,” John garbled drunkenly, as he leaned against the side of the booth. “IsthatyoudearPaulie?” his heavily slurred words running into each other, mimicking a headlong collision.

“John?” returned the unbelieving voice of John’s mate. Sleepy incoherence soon dissolved into righteous anger as evidenced in a frightfully loud voice as Paul continued to speak. “Do you have any idea what the fucking time is right now?” he shouted. “It’s bloody 3 AM!”

“Don’t give a fuck what time it is, you sod,” John answered drunkenly. Shaking his head as if to clear it, John slurred, “I have something to tell you.”

A loud sigh sounded on the other end, “I don’t have time for this John,” Paul replied tiredly. “Call me tomorrow when you’re sober. Goodnight, Jo…”

“She’s fucking dead, Paulie!” John interrupted angrily, his voice suddenly clear and loud.

A tense silence followed. “Who’s dead?” Paul asked worriedly, the sleepiness gone from his voice as a fearful note sounded through.

“Me mum, you wanker!” John shouted. With a choked sob, John closed his eyes as he whispered incoherently, “Me mum’s fucking dead.”

“Oh, Jesus fucking Christ,” Paul swore. “I’m so sorry John,” he said softly. “What happened?”

Growing angrier and angrier, John slammed a fist into the side of the booth, not even wincing as the hard metal bruised his knuckles.

“A fucking copper hit her,” he growled. “A fucking piss-drunk off-duty copper ran her over with his fucking car! And now,” John said quietly, “I’m going to fucking kill him.”

Paul’s harried voice came over the line, “John, no!” he said quickly, his words tumbling one over the other. “You’re not thinking clearly. You can’t fucking kill a cop.”

“He killed me mum, Paul,” John almost sobbed, his forehead resting against the cool metal of the payphone. “He killed my fucking mum.”

Swearing under his breath, Paul said, “I’m coming to get you, John,” he said with determination and concern. “Where are you?”

“In a phone booth,” John responded indistinguishably, the effects of the liquor kicking in again as he slumped forward, nearly hitting his head against the payphone.

“No shit, Lennon,” Paul mumbled under his breath. Aloud he asked with a forced patience apparent in his voice. “But where?”

“On the corner of New Castle Road, near my house,” John slurred, his voice growing fainter.

“I’ll be right there, John,” Paul promised. “Just stay where you are,” he ordered before hanging up.

“I promise,” John mumbled to the empty booth as he promptly passed out.

Some time later, John regained consciousness at the touch of a light tap on his cheeks. Opening bleary eyes, John saw a faint shape in front of him, a blurry face peering into his own as a hand lightly descended upon his cheek again. John drunkenly tried to bat the hand away, mumbling, “Who’s there?”

“It’s me, John,” the voice answered. “It’s Paul.”

“Paulie?” John questioned, as he squinted his eyes towards his blurry mate.

A slender arm moved around John’s waist as his own was lifted around a pair of strong shoulders. John swayed slightly as he was lifted onto his feet, almost knocking Paul over in the process.

“Steady, John. Steady,” Paul warned, as he attempted to get a firmer grasp on the drunken young man. “You’re going to have to walk, Johnny, because I definitely cannot carry you the entire way.”

John nodded slowly, as he tried to stand up straight, gripping Paul tighter and closer.

Slowly, the two exited the phone booth, moving towards Paul’s home at a snail’s pace, the drunken man staggering down the sidewalk as the sober one tried his hardest to keep the both of them upright.

After what seemed like hours, but was probably only a handful of minutes, Paul let himself and John into the house, shutting the door quietly behind them as he helped the drunk man up the stairs. The two tried to make as little noise as possible so as not to wake Paul’s father and younger brother, the odd loud stumble causing Paul to dart his eyes worriedly towards his father’s closed bedroom door. Once they topped the stairs and rounded the corner through the dark hallway, Paul quietly opened the door to his room and quickly strode over to the bed, dragging his limp burden across the room and depositing it on the mattress.

Kneeling, Paul quickly divested John of his heavy boots before shoving the older boy’s legs up on the bed. Standing, Paul grabbed a pillow and a blanket as he glanced down on his mate’s sprawled body, shaking his head sadly before moving towards the door.  
“Paulie?” John moaned from the bed, as he struggled to sit up. Not succeeding, he simply propped himself up on one arm as he turned a bleary gaze on his friend’s retreating form.

Turning back around, Paul regarded John; “Yeah?” he answered with one hand firmly grasping the doorknob.

“Stay with me?” John asked meekly, his gaze now downcast.

Gulping slightly, Paul looked from the door to John’s face, as if trying to decide what to do. Face flaming; he took in a shaky breath as he locked the door firmly behind him.

“Um, all right,” Paul mumbled softly, before moving towards the middle of the room, not willing to meet John’s eyes.

John quickly moved over, making room for the younger man on the bed as he patted the space beside him. Paul sat stiffly, placing the pillow that he had been carrying under his head as he hesitantly laid down, closing his eyes almost immediately, as if to ward off the unnerving sight of John laying beside him.

John tugged at a corner of the blanket that lay in a heap at the foot of the bed and pulled it over the two of them as he laid his head on Paul’s chest, his arm going around the younger man’s body. Sighing softly the older boy closed his eyes as well, John holding Paul close as a few tears seeped past his eyelids, his body shaking slightly as he tried not to break down and cry. As he slowly started to drift off to sleep, he felt an arm move around him, squeezing his shoulders tightly in a comforting and loving gesture.

**September 1958**

The small sitting room was fairly dark, the windows closed in by wood shutters with very little light coming in through the cracks. This bit of illumination that snuck through attempted to light the entire room, falling on the soft, cushiony sofas and deepening the colour of the dark wood furniture, before taking the time to dance across the ebony and ivory keys of the piano in the corner. Amidst it all, Paul sat quietly, as he watched the hands of the clock tick by slowly, frozen in the same position that he had been in for the past couple of hours. The “tick-tock, tick-tock” of the clock was incurably loud, designed to drive any sane person crazy, that is, if said person sat still long enough.

With a heavy sigh, Paul turned towards the phone that had been moved to the low table in front of him, its cord stretched across the hallway and into the room. The young man glared at the silent object as if willing it to ring, and when it didn’t he let his hand hover above the receiver, poised to pick it up, but never making a move to do so.

Mike McCartney wandered into the room, loudly biting into an apple as he paused to smirk at his older brother’s antics. He leaned against a wall, chewing loudly as he continued to grin, watching Paul intently.

The older boy looked up, scowling angrily as he caught sight of his brother’s leering presence. “What the fuck do you want?” Paul bit out angrily with narrowed eyes.

“Oh, nothing” Mike replied breezily, a shrewd grin crossing his lips. Taking a bite into the apple, he continued, “Carry on, son, carry on.”

Glaring, Paul blushed unconsciously, his skin heating up as it turned a dull shade of red. “Carry on with what?” he asked, trying to appear calm and oblivious, his darting gaze bellying his casual words.

Smirking, Mike moved backwards slightly turning as if to leave the room. Casting a sideways glance at Paul, he answered, “On deciding on whether or not you should call him up.” At Paul’s grimace, Mike grinned knowingly as he turned around and left the room as he yelled over his shoulder, “When did you ever become such a fucking queer?”

“Sod off, you wanker!” Paul yelled back, a bright red tinge of embarrassment colouring his pale cheeks. “I’m doing no such thing!”

In answer, a loud guffaw sounded through the house, causing Paul to glower even more.

“Bloody git,” Paul mumbled to himself as he looked down on the phone, sighing loudly when it still didn’t ring.

Finally with an angry look of determination, Paul reached for the receiver and lifted it up, dialing a number before he changed his mind. The high tinny ring soon hit his ear and he paled slightly as someone answered.

“Hello?”

“Uh, John?” Paul questioned hesitatingly, twirling the cord around his finger nervously.

“No, this is Stu,” the person replied cheerily, his voice friendly and polite.

Paul’s face darkened considerably when he heard the much abhorred name, a twinge of jealousy flaring within him. Stu however had no inkling as to Paul’s change in disposition, and continued to speak obliviously.

“Hold on a second, let me get him,” Stuart chattered with good cheer, causing Paul to wince slightly as the older boy’s bellow carried through, “John!” he yelled. “It’s for you!” Turning back to the phone, Stuart addressed Paul again, “He’ll just be a second.”

“Great,” Paul grumbled to himself, rolling his eyes in annoyance.

A number of excruciatingly slow minutes passed before the phone was picked up again, this time John’s voice coming through the line.

“Hello?” John answered, the familiar voice perking Paul up somewhat.

“Hey, John,” Paul replied, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious, the way he used to after first meeting John. Now, the same old feelings of inadequacy resurfaced, as he felt infinitely younger than his old mate and his new college friend.

“Macca!” John greeted jovially. “How have you been, mate?”

Smiling slightly, Paul swallowed nervously before responding, “Not bad, John. How are you?”

“Can’t complain,” he replied, “Just a bit knackered. Stu and I were at some wild party over at the art school last night, didn’t get in until really late last night, or early this morning depending on how you look at it,” John chuckled lightly.

“Oh,” Paul said curtly, a sudden hit of jealousy flaring up. “You and Stu went to a party?”

“Yeah, mate,” John said excitedly, his voice animated as he regaled Paul with the memories of the previous night. “It was fucking mad, Paul. The birds were loose and the beer was plenty. You really should’ve been there.”

A sour look crossed Paul’s face, knowing that he very well couldn’t have been at the party, due to his age and all.

“Yeah, well,” Paul replied with slight annoyance. Taking in a deep breath, Paul continued, “So, you want to get together…?”

Suddenly John started yelling on the other end, “Stuart!” he bellowed. “Are you leaving? No, wait, I’ll come with.” Turning back to the phone, John addressed Paul, “Hey Macca, I’m going to have to cut this short. Stu and I are going to hit the pub before heading back to his flat.”

“Uh, okay,” Paul mumbled dejectedly. With an uncertain tone in his voice, Paul continued, “You want me to call you tomorrow about getting together or will you call?”

“Oh yeah, whatever,” John replied distractedly, his mind no longer on the conversation. “I have to get going, mate. I’ll see you around.”

Before Paul could say goodbye, the line went dead in his hand, the dial tone loud and mocking. With a miserable sigh, Paul let the phone fall back into the cradle, as he leaned back in his chair, feeling wholly rejected. With another sigh, he rose from his chair and walked out of the room, trudging upstairs slowly.

**January 1959**

The narrow hallway was lit with small table lamps, antiques from the look of them, their stems a warm burnished bronze with shades that looked like stained glass. They cast a cheery light throughout the hallway, lighting up the small area with twinkling illumination that bounced across the wood paneled walls. John, however, was not aware of his merry surroundings, for his gaze was locked on one point on the hallway runner, his eyes not wavering as he paced back and forth, muttering to himself all the while.

Suddenly, the agitated young man slid to a stop, and with a determined look on his handsome face, he stalked towards the phone and lifted up the receiver only to slam it back down again and resume his pacing. Shaking his head in disgust, and with an almost unintelligible “Wanker,” falling past his lips, John stopped mid pace and returned to his spot in front of the phone, picking up the earpiece once more, this time even going as far as to dial a series of numbers.

Bringing the phone up to his ear, John muttered “Fucking Christ, he’s going to be pissed,” his face paling somewhat as it started to ring. Suddenly, the seriousness of it all hit John with undeniable force. Eyes widening and panic colouring his features, he moved to quickly hang up, but a voice suddenly broke through the dread.

“Hello?” the voice answered politely, voice crackling through the phone line.

Timidly, John answered, “Hey Paul.”

Seconds ticked by and no one answered. John almost broke out into a sweat, as he waited for a response, but none came. Growing impatient, he opened his mouth to speak again when a cold voice interrupted him

“Oh,” Paul responded in a tone devoid of emotion, which caused John to wince. “Hello John.”

“Uh… uh…” John stammered, not knowing what to say next. “Uh, how are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” was the curt reply.

“Good, that’s good,” John responded lamely, mentally kicking himself at the hollowness of the conversation thus far.

An uncomfortable silence descended, as John wracked his brain to think of something else to say, something that would ease the tension somewhat, but nothing came to mind. He kept drawing a blank. Every time that he wanted to screw up a situation the words came effortlessly, but the one time that he actually had to fix something, nothing would come.

Bugger.

Finally, someone spoke, but it wasn’t John. “Was there something you wanted, John?” Paul asked tiredly, sounding as though he wanted to be anywhere but talking to the older boy.

“No, no!” John denied vehemently. Forcing a faux- brightness to his voice John continued, “Can’t a bloke call his mates now and then?”

Paul snorted. “Mates,” he scoffed bitterly. “That’s a good one, Lennon. Being mates would have to mean actually seeing one another more often than once every couple of weeks.”

An ashamed look came across John’s face at Paul’s words. Taking in a deep breath, John implored his mate, “Paulie…” he began but was cut off as soon as he said the name.

“Don’t fucking ‘Paulie’ me, Lennon!” Paul snapped angrily. John heard a shaky intake of breath over the line, quickly followed by an angry tirade. “Where the hell have you been?” Paul practically yelled. “I haven’t heard from you in ages! I’d understand if it was a question of me being too young for you now and not fitting in with your art school mates, but George said you’ve been around to see him recently. So, I know that can’t be it because Geo is fucking younger than I am!” Taking a second deep breath, Paul continued quietly, “So, what is it then?”

John stared at the phone in shock, a bit speechless at the moment, for he had never expected Paul to blow up like that. He had deluded himself into thinking that he didn’t matter and that Paul couldn’t possibly care that much. Well, he was fucking wrong. He mentally slapped himself, angry at the fact that fear of the feelings that continually crept up when he was in Paul’s presence had forced him into cutting off contact with his best mate.

Gulping inaudibly, John responded awkwardly, “I… I don’t know…” he lied.

“You don’t know,” Paul repeated resentfully. “Well, that’s just great.”

Finally finding his voice, John began to speak; “Look, Paulie, I’m sorry,” he apologized anxiously, the desire to fix things foremost in his mind. “Truly, I am. You will never know just how badly I feel about all of this.”

“Yeah, right,” Paul replied disdainfully, his words followed by a derisive snort.

“Please Macca!” John cried desperately. “Please, please, please, please forgive me!” Trying to lighten the mood somewhat, a slight teasing note snuck into his voice, “I’ll be your best mate.”

A heavy sigh could be heard over the line, “I just can’t do this again, John,” Paul said sadly. “You don’t know what it’s like to just be fucking forgotten about suddenly. I didn’t know if I fucking did something wrong or what.”

John hung his head in shame, his voice soft when he answered, “I really am sorry, Paul,” he said with barely repressed emotion. “There’s not much else I can do except apologize and hope that you’ll forgive me.”

Another sigh came through the phone, this one more resigned than saddened. “I must be a fucking loony,” Paul could be heard mumbling under his breath. “Fine, you sod. I’ll let it go, but just this once,” he warned.

John collapsed against the wall in relief, before getting the courage to say what he had called to say in the first place. “Let me make it up to you,” he said nervously, his eyes closing as he gripped the phone so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “Let me take you out tonight,” John said quickly, the words tumbling out one on top of the other.

Silence stretched out for about a minute. “Take me out?” Paul parroted taken aback. “Do you mean like a date?”

John started laughing loudly, and very nervously. “A date?” he scoffed unconvincingly. “Come on Paulie, I’m not queer,” he exclaimed with a fake high-pitched giggle. “No, just go out for drinks, like mates do, right?”

“Uh, sure,” Paul replied, still sounding skeptical. “Will Stu be there?”

“Oh no,” John replied with a shake of his head. “He’s busy with those paints of his. Has some fucking art project he has to get finished in the next few days.”

Over the line Paul sounded slightly relieved. “All right, then.” As if an afterthought, Paul added, “Want me to ring George?”

“No!” John said quickly, a bit forcefully. Clearing his throat, John tried to get himself under control. “No,” he repeated. “We can go around to see him tomorrow.”

“Well, okay,” Paul replied, still sounding a bit puzzled. “See you in a few hours. Is 6 okay?”

“That’s fine, mate,” John answered back. “See you in a while, bye.”

“Bye,” Paul echoed before hanging up.

John breathed a sigh of relief, as he slowly lowered his arm, letting the phone fall back onto its cradle. He stared out into the hallway for a brief second, a proud smile turning up his lips as he walked towards the stairs whistling “Twenty Flight Rock” loudly in the quiet house.

**October 1959**

Paul stumbled down the stairs blearily, his hair mussed from sleep as he rubbed a hand over his eyes. Nearly tripping over the last step, he lunged forward, grabbing the offensive object in his hands and nearly ripping it apart as he answered the phone. Once he lifted the receiver, the incessant ringing stopped and the sleepy young man breathed a sigh of relief, before turning a glare on the handset. Swearing under his breath, he lifted the receiver to his mouth, barking out an angry, “Hello?”

“Hello Paulie, love,” a slurred voice came through loudly on the other end.

Rolling his eyes angrily, Paul pulled a wooden chair towards him, sitting down heavily before answering in a resigned voice.

“Hello, John,” he sighed, as he attempted to make himself comfortable on the hard wood, leaning forward and trying to prop his elbow up on the hall table.

Thudding footsteps soon sounded in the house and Paul whipped his head towards the stairs, his startled gaze falling on his dad, as he stomped down the steps, pulling a robe around his shivering form. Paul cringed at the angry look on his father’s face, as the old man stalked closer to him.

“Who’s that on the phone?” Mr. McCartney raged, moving forward as if to rip the phone out of Paul’s hands.

Shrinking back, Paul cradled the handset in his arms, shielding it away from his irate father. “Uh, it’s John,” he stammered, cringing again as the older man’s face flushed an angry scarlet.

“Bloody hell!” James Paul McCartney the II fumed. “It’s bleeding midnight! Hang up this instant!”

“Please, Pop,” Paul pleaded, looking up at his dad imploringly. “I promise to hang up in exactly fifteen minutes.”

Too tired to argue; Mr. McCartney turned around and stalked back up the stairs. “Fine, fifteen minutes,” he yelled back. “But you better keep your bloody voice down!”

Rolling his eyes, Paul turned his attention back to the phone, his ear met with more of John’s drunken rambling.

“Paulie, Paulie… Where are you?” John mumbled over and over, causing Paul to let out a deep sigh.

“You really need to stop calling me this late, John,” Paul replied with a sigh, “Especially when you’re piss drunk like this.”

John simply ignored him, crowing out excitedly, “It’s my birthday, Paulie!”

Heaving another heavy sigh, Paul transferred the phone from one to hand to the other, “I know, Johnny, I know. But wouldn’t this be better left till tomorrow?”

“Shut your gob, Macca!” John suddenly said angrily. “I thought you were me best mate. The least you could do is wish me a ‘Happy Birthday.’”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Paul closed his eyes. “Okay, fine,” he finally replied. “Happy birthday, John.”

Happy again, John responded with the cheeriness of a drunk, “Thank you, Paulie.”

About to get up from the chair, Paul said, “Is that all you wanted, John? Because I would really like to get back to…”

Before Paul could finish his sentence, John broke in. “I’m not done yet,” he whined. “I have a secret to tell you.”

Paul fell back in the chair with a loud thud, looking towards the stairs to make sure that he hadn’t awakened his father.

Exasperation creeping into his voice, Paul said, “What is it now, John?” he whispered loudly. “It’s late and I really don’t have time for your games right now.”

“Do you want to hear the secret or not?” John yelled on the other end, causing the sleepy young man to pull the phone away from his ear.

Shaking his head slightly, Paul bit back a swear before returning the receiver to its previous position. Forcing a feeling of calm over himself, Paul replied sweetly, “Of course, John, love,” he said, patiently. “Go ahead. What’s your secret?”

“Do you promise not to tell anyone?” John demanded.

“Of course I do,” Paul replied quickly, hoping to move the proceedings along faster.

“You ready?” John said excitedly, an almost giddy feeling apparent in his voice.

Almost screaming in frustration, Paul ground out from between gritted teeth, “Yes, John,” he seethed. “I’m ready.”

In a stage whisper, John confided, “I love you.”

The phone nearly fell from his hands, as the words registered in Paul’s mind. Various emotions ran through him, hope and fear amongst them, including perhaps a deeply hidden affection mirroring the one that John confessed. Paul’s heart began to beat a bit faster and what felt like butterflies suddenly took residence in his stomach, as his already large eyes widened considerably. But as quickly as the feelings took flight, Paul shook his head and squelched them, ridding himself of these crazy feelings before responding, compelling himself to speak as normally as possible.

“John,” Paul began, a forced lightness in his voice that bellied the anxiety that he was feeling. “You’re obviously drunk and have no idea what you’re saying right now. Come morning, you won’t even remember half of the events of this night, save for the bleeding headache you’ll be stuck with.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Paul,” John answered, his voice suddenly clear and strong with no sign of the drunken slur that had plagued his speech previously. “I will remember all that I’ve said, and I meant it all.”

Paul’s mouth fell open in shock and he nearly dropped the phone for the second time that night. His lips moved, attempting to bring forth coherent sentences but all that was uttered was a spluttering, “Wha… What… John?”

His voice surprisingly calm, John simply said, “Good night, Paul. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

The line then went abruptly dead in Paul’s hands.

Stunned and shaking all over, Paul let the phone fall from his trembling fingertips, the receiver falling to the ground in a loud clatter. With eyes closed, the young man leaned back in his chair attempting to get his breathing under control as the night’s conversation played in his head.

**June 1960**

Sunlight streamed through the open window, the striped curtains swept aside to reveal the bright sunny day, a rarity in Northern England. A gentle breeze poured through the room and gently ruffled the curtains, a burst of air carrying the scent of freshly cut grass and colourful wildflowers. John lay sprawled across his bed, the sunlight in his face as his head rested on the edge of the mattress, his feet propped up against the headboard. A phone was held to his ear as a big smile danced across his face, an expression of pure contentment as he listened to the person on the other end speak.

“So,” Paul began excitedly, “We’ll take the rail to Reading, which should only take about 5 hours. So…”

“And what do you plan on doing once we get to Reading, Paulie?” John interrupted, laughing slightly as he bounced his feet on the headboard, the wood hitting the wall repeatedly with a gentle thud.

“Well,” Paul answered, still talking animatedly. “My cousin Betty promised us a couple of jobs behind the bar at the pub that she her and husband own, ‘The Fox and Hounds.’ We can even get a few gigs while we’re down there.”

Moving on his side, John propped himself up on one elbow, turning his face away from the sun that continued to stream through the window.

“But Paul,” he said, as he continued to move about the mattress, trying to make himself comfortable. “We’ll be needing a bloody place to stay and I doubt we’ll have enough money to get a decent room.”

“That’s the beauty of it, John,” Paul exclaimed. “Betty already has a room for us, free of charge. So, no worries there.”

Grinning slightly, John asked, a teasing note in his voice, “One room, huh? Will that be one bed or two?”

Seeming to mull it over, Paul became silent for a few seconds, John smiling as he waited for a response.

“I believe there’s to be one bed,” Paul finally replied, “Although I could be wrong.”

“One bed,” John repeated, practically purring. “I’m liking the sound of this trip more and more.”

“John!” Paul exclaimed, an embarrassed note in his voice as the older boy began to laugh at Paul’s expense.

“Paul, love,” John gasped out from between chuckles, his shoulders shaking slightly. “It’s been almost a year now! Don’t you think it’s about time that you stopped getting embarrassed whenever I make a lewd comment?” Voice now gently teasing, John continued, “Because, love, being lewd is something I frequently am.”

Voice slightly indignant Paul shot back, “Sod off!” he muttered. “I’m not bloody embarrassed.”

Sounding totally unconvinced, John began to nod his head, “Uh huh,” he began. “You’re not embarrassed. Right…”

With a huff, Paul got quiet, before answering again. “You know I’m not, John,” he began in a subdued voice. “But you know that we can’t really talk like this out loud, especially when people might hear us. After all,” he said, his voice rising slightly. “It was your idea to keep this thing quiet as I recall.”

Sighing, John slumped back on the bed, his arms falling to his sides. Looking up at the off-white ceiling, he sighed again, seeming to study the smooth plaster before speaking.

“You’re right, Paul,” John said in a resigned voice. A grin breaking out on his face, John added, “Bloody git.”

A burst of laughter sounded from over the line. “Don’t think I didn’t hear that, Lennon, you bastard,” Paul shot back good-naturedly.

Now grinning unabashedly, John forced an even tone into his voice before replying, “Hear what?” he asked, innocently.

Still laughing, Paul said, “Anyway, as I was saying, before we were sidetracked,” he said pointedly, to which John simply snorted. “The train leaves at 9 AM, so you best be up on time, Lennon. I’m not having you sleep in until noon only to have us miss our train,” Paul finished in a stern voice.

Grimacing, John grumbled under his breath, “Fucking 9 in the morning! You must be daft.” Under his breath he added, “Now we know who the bird in this relationship is.”

“What was that, John?” Paul asked suspiciously.

In a false sweet voice, John answered, “Nothing, love.”

“Bird, indeed,” Paul groused before his voice turned contemplative. “Though as the bird,” he began, seeming to be deep in thought. “It does give me license to withhold certain things.”

Sitting up straight with dark eyes bugging out, John burst out anxiously, “What? You wouldn’t?”

“Of course,” Paul continued, completely ignoring John’s outburst. “I could always ask Betty to give us separate rooms…”

On his knees, John protested, “No, no, no.” With a pleading voice the older boy promised, “I’ll be good, Paul. I promise.”

In a condescending tone, Paul responded, “Now there’s a good lad.”

Laying back down again, John muttered, “Wanker.”

Ignoring John’s antics, Paul asked, curiously, “So, what did you tell Cyn?”

Groaning, John rolled onto his stomach, “Nothing much,” he answered, “Just told her that I’ll be gone for the summer.”

Paul’s incredulous voice came over the line, “That’s it?” he asked slightly amazed. “You didn’t give her any other explanation?”

Frowning slightly, John switched the handset from hand to the other, letting the now occupied hand fall to the floor. “No, not really,” he replied. Still frowning, John continued, “Why? Should I have?”

A loud sigh, came over the line. “Why she puts up with you is beyond me,” Paul muttered.

“Same reason you put up with me,” John shot back.

“And that would be?”

Smiling smugly, John rolled over on his back, squinting slightly as the sun hit his eyes. “Because I’m dead sexy,” he replied arrogantly.

Chuckling lightly, Paul replied back, “If you say so, Lennon.” A slight pause followed, before he continued in a more subdued voice. “It is a drag though,” Paul began hesitatingly. “Having to share you with her. If only…”

“I know, Paul,” John answered quietly, his eyes tightly closed. “I’ll break up with her, as soon as I get the chance. I swear.”

“You’ve been saying that for the past year,” Paul shot back, voice tight with frustration.

Features colouring, John injected, “Well, you’re still with Dot, aren’t you?”

Paul sighed unhappily. “I know, John. I’m sorry,” he apologized. “It’s just a drag, you know?”

Running a tired hand over his face, John said softly, “I know, love.”

With a shaky sigh, Paul said, “Well, I have to get going. Have to run some errands for me dad. I’ll see you tonight?” he asked, a hopeful note in his voice.

“Of course, Macca,” John answered back, smiling slightly.

“Okay,” Paul responded softly. “I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you, too,” John whispered back, as Paul disconnected the call.

Lying back with a smile, John placed the receiver down, as he turned towards the ceiling, the sunlight continuing to play across his face.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  A collection of phone calls and incidents throughout the years.

**October 1961**

A low hanging ceiling lamp burned brightly in the cozy kitchen, the light bouncing across scrubbed clean countertops and polished floors. The faint sound of rustling paper was the only noise in the room, as Paul sat at the kitchen table with the newspaper before him, the young man reading intently between bites of baked beans on toast. Suddenly, the ringing of the telephone broke the relative quiet and Paul jumped up, dropping the fork carelessly and causing the utensil to jangle against the plate as he rushed out of the kitchen.

Paul quickly lifted the receiver and opened his mouth to say hello, but was interrupted by the voice on the other end before he could do so.

“Pack your bags, Paulie,” John crowed. “We’re going on a trip!”

“And hello to you too, Johnny,” Paul answered wryly, an amused smile on his face.

“No time for greetings, mate,” John shot back impatiently. “Did you not hear what I said?”

Sighing, Paul leaned against the wall. “I heard you, John,” he answered. “Something about a trip?” he asked, a twinge of curiosity taking hold.

“Yeah, mate!” John exclaimed excitedly. “We’re going on a trip! Tomorrow! So be sure you’re ready.”

Rolling his eyes, Paul shook his head at John’s exuberance, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Okay,” he replied. “I get the trip part. What I don’t get is why?”

“Because me auntie just sent me £100 for my birthday!” John cried out animatedly, his voice ringing happily over the line.

Paul nearly dropped the phone in surprise. “£100!” he cried out. “You’re joking!”

“Would I joke about something like this?” John questioned, sounding a bit offended.

Nodding his head, Paul shot back, “Yeah, you would.”

A slight pause followed. “Okay, fine,” John grudgingly agreed. “I would.” His former excitement returning, John continued. “But I’m not this time!” he asserted forcefully. “So get yourself ready! Come now!”

Laughing slightly, Paul leaned back against the wall, trying to get comfortable against the rough wood. “Where are we going then?” he asked.

“Hell, if I know!” John said happily. “We can go wherever we want to go! The sky is the fucking limit!”

John’s infectious energy took a hold of Paul slightly, a wistful smile crossing his face as he thought of locales to visit.

“Well,” he began hesitatingly, “France might be nice.”

“France, it is then,” John said excitedly. “And then” he continued, as if deep in thought, “We can hitchhike over to Spain as well. As long as we’re over there we might as well take advantage of it.”

“We’re not going to get all the way to Spain on £100 alone, John,” Paul reminded, shaking his head. “We’d have to find work at some point.”

“So, we’ll work!” John cried, sounding impatient. “Come on, Macca,” he pleaded. “You can’t let me celebrate me fucking 21st birthday all alone! What kind of a mate and boyfriend are you anyway?”

“Jesus Christ, John,” Paul muttered angrily, his eyes darting from side to side as if expecting someone to have heard that over the line. “Keep your voice down. You want the whole bloody world to find out?” Voice softening, he continued, “But fine, I’ll come with you.”

“Ta, love,” John said, sounding pleased. “No, we just have to make some plans. We’ll leave tomorrow and…”

“Uh oh,” Paul interrupted John suddenly, hitting his forehead with the palm of his hand.

“Now what, Paul?” John asked, his annoyed voice coming through the line.

“Have you forgotten our gigs?” Paul asked, his eyes closing in anticipation of John’s impending tirade.

“Bloody fucking hell!” John burst out predictably. “Sod the fucking gigs!” he exclaimed vehemently. “I’m not letting this opportunity pass by because of some bloody shows.”

“John,” Paul protested in vain. “We just can’t leave George and Pete like that!”

“Fuck George and Pete!” John shouted angrily.

Despite himself, Paul started chuckling. “As tempting as that sounds,” Paul choked out. “I’d rather not. Besides,” he continued lightheartedly, “I don’t think they swing that way, so they may not appreciate it.”

A long sigh came over the line, causing Paul to flinch slightly.

“Look, Paul,” John responded quietly. “It’s my fucking birthday, and I’d like nothing better than to go on this trip with you. If you decide not to come, then fine, I’m going anyway. But I’d really love to have you with me.” John paused for a second before continuing, “Besides, there will always be gigs, they aren’t bloody going anywhere. We’ll book more when we get back.”

Paul smiled after hearing John’s words. Resting his forehead against the wall, he answered softly, “Okay, John. I’ll go with you. You’re right, sod the gigs. We can always book more.”

“Ta, Paulie.”

Teasingly, Paul asked, “So, you want to take your best mate and your boyfriend? Won’t that get a bit crowded?”

John’s warm laugh came over the phone. “Yeah, well, I’ve always wanted to have a threesome, and what better place to have a ménage a trois than in France?”

Paul let out a deep chuckle as he shook his head in amusement. “I suppose you’re right,” he said with a smile.

“I thought so,” John replied. “Just imagine it, Macca,” he continued, his voice sounding wistful. “The two of us sitting in a sidewalk café or climbing the Eiffel Tower at night and looking down at the lighted city…”

Smiling thoughtfully, Paul interrupted John softly, “It does sound lovely,” he whispered.

“Then returning to the hotel room where I can kiss you until you can’t bloody think coherently as I lay you upon the bed and remove every article of your clothing. Mussing up that perfectly done hair of yours…”

“Hey now!” Paul protested indignantly. “There will be no such thing! I will not have you messing with me hair. It takes a long time getting it into that perfect DA.”

“Don’t I know it,” John replied with a laugh.

“Maybe we should try that hairstyle Astrid has gotten Stu into, with the hair brushed all forward…” Paul began contemplatively.

“Don’t even think about it,” John interrupted loudly. “We can’t be looking like a pair of queers…”

John trailed off as silence descended. Suddenly the two burst into laughter.

“Well,” John said, as the laughter faded into the occasional snicker. “I’ll see you tomorrow, all right? We can meet at the old cemetery near my house.”

“All right, John,” Paul agreed. “You know,” he said eagerly. “I’m really starting to look forward to this.”

“Me too, love. Bye.”

“Bye, John,” Paul echoed as he hung up.

With a grin, Paul let the receiver drop with an almost inaudible click before returning to the kitchen. Folding up the discarded newspaper he placed it in the centre of the table as he cleared it of the dirty dishes, scraping the remains of his snack into the trash before depositing the plates into the sink. With a quick glance around the kitchen, he turned the light off and climbed the stairs to his room, the sounds of Paul’s footfalls echoing throughout the quiet house.

**July 1962**

The rain poured from the heavens that late July night, a heavy downpour not uncommon to the country during the summer months. The sky was a dark, churning mass of activity, sheets of water pounding the pavement and battering the windows of houses across Liverpool. With a sigh, John pulled the curtains back, glaring as far as he could see into the pitch black night without the aid of his much needed glasses. Running a hand through his now brushed forward hair, John let the phone fall back into its cradle as he stepped away from the window, letting the curtains swish closed with nary a sound.

John walked further into the dimly lit hallway, bare feet sinking into the soft carpet as he walked towards the stairs, shoulders slumped miserably. Placing a foot on the first step with one hand on the banister, John turned back towards the phone, conflicting emotions shooting across his face. Steeling himself, the young man straightened his shoulders and walked back the way he had come, a resolved look on his face as he retraced his previous steps. Snatching up the receiver, John dialed a familiar number, the look of determination fading by degrees as the phone started ring.

By the time the last ring sounded, John looked positively frightened.

“Hello?” the person on the other end queried, the well-known voice causing John to almost bolt.

“Uh, hello Paulie,” the older man croaked out, his voice cracking slightly. “How… How are you?”

“Johnny,” Paul greeted warmly, the affectionate sound bringing forth a tentative smile to John’s lips. “How are you, mate?” the younger man asked.

“Uhh, I’m fine, love,” John stammered, his face flushing uncomfortably.

“John,” Paul said, sounding concerned. “Is everything all right?”

Coughing lightly, John stalled, running a hand down his tired face, not knowing how to answer the question.

“John? John?” Paul said in a slightly anxious voice. “Are you there?”

With a deep steadying breath, John braced himself against the wall, one arm stretched in front of him, palm flat against the wood. “Yeah, love,” he croaked. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine, John,” Paul responded unconvinced. “Do you want me to come over?”

“No, no!” John replied hurriedly, as he straightened up quickly, slightly swaying in place as he almost lost his balance.

Still sounding somewhat puzzled, Paul acquiesced. “Well, if you say so, love,” the younger man replied. “But if you need me, just let me know and I’ll be right over.”

John closed his eyes as he dropped his head forward, resting his forehead against the wall, the cool wood soothing his heated skin. He took a deep breath, attempting to calm himself before speaking again.

“Thanks, Paulie,” John whispered, as he opened his eyes, a haunted look in the dark irises. Expelling a shaky breath, John continued, “Actually,” he said haltingly, “I have something important to tell you.”

“Sure, John,” Paul replied, a knowing sound in his voice. “I knew something was fucking wrong from the sound of your voice.” Pausing, Paul asked with concern, “What is it?”

Casting his gaze to the floor with a heavy sigh, John whispered, “Cynthia is pregnant.”

Silence reigned on the other end. No words were spoken for the only sound was the sound of Paul’s ragged breathing. John’s hands shook uncontrollably as he waited for Paul to respond, his heart beating erratically deep within his chest, threatening to burst out. John opened his mouth to say something, anything, but no words would come. He, however, didn’t have to say a word, as Paul’s cold voice came through the phone.

“How long have you known?” Paul asked calmly, his voice devoid of emotion.

John winced, taking in a deep breath before answering. “I just found out a few minutes ago,” he related wretchedly “She called me right before I called you.”

“What are you going to do about it?” Paul asked, almost mechanically

“I…” John began, his heart aching. “I told her that we had to get married.”

John’s words were followed by a few more seconds of painful silence. “Well,” Paul responded, his voice still even and calm. “That’s just great, John.” With a sarcastic bite to his voice the younger man continued, “I suppose congratulations are in order.”

Body shaking, John exploded. “Fuck, Paul! What is wrong with you?” he shouted, a fist flying at the wall, skin and bone making brutal contact with wood. “You can’t just pretend to be all calm and uncaring. Please,” the older man begged. “Please tell me how you’re feeling.”

A low bitter laugh flowed through the phone, chilling John’s blood.

“Bloody hell, John,” Paul replied coldly. “Get a grip on yourself. There’s no use in getting all distraught over this. What’s done is done. You can now marry Cyn and have that normal little family you’ve always wanted,” Paul concluded with a harsh laugh.

“Fuck, Paul,” John exclaimed. “You know that that’s not what I want. I want you,” he whispered shakily, eyes bright with tears. “I love you.”

Laughing bitterly, Paul replied, “Well, I suppose that’s not an option anymore, now is it?” With a shaky sigh, Paul continued, “Goodnight, John.”

And before John could utter another word, the dial tone assaulted his ears. With a sound halfway between a sigh and a sob, the older man crumpled to the floor, his head held in shaking hands. The receiver fell as well, dangling close to the ground suspended by the long cord, swaying steadily. Head bent low and knees pulled up to his chest, John swayed as well, his body doubled over and rocking forwards and backwards on the cold wood floor.

**April 1963**

The hotel room was enshrouded in darkness, heavy burgundy curtains pulled across the large windows that took up one whole wall. Two unmade twin beds separated by a nightstand and a large wardrobe standing in an unobtrusive corner made up the rest of the room, the furniture taking up most of the limited space. In the corner of the chamber, a door laid open a crack, the sound of a shower running heard from within. On one of the beds, haphazardly arranged blankets began to move, dipping lower to reveal a tousled head of reddish brown. Escaping the confines of the tangled sheets, a pale hand reached for a small clock before disappearing inside its warm cocoon again.

A low moan soon erupted from within, and turning over, John yawned wide, his arms stretching over his head as he sat up, leaning against the headboard tiredly. Dark eyes traveled around the room while he ran a hand through his mussed hair, noticing the lack of another body in the neighbouring bed. With a sigh, John sat up, lowering his feet to the ground before padding towards the window unsteadily. He reached for the cord that hung on the side and he pulled it downwards, the curtains parting like the Red Sea with a grating sound, revealing early light.

With a groan, John walked back to his head and sat down on the edge, covering his face with his hands as he rubbed the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes. He patted the mattress around him, looking for the clock and once found grimaced when he saw how early it was as he placed the clock back on the nightstand. The grimace, however, was soon replaced by a look of fiendish glee as he reached forward and grabbed a hold of the phone, placing the entire thing on his bed he lifted up the receiver as he quickly dialed.

John listened intently as the phone started to ring.

“Hello?” a sleepy voice answered, followed closely by a wide yawn.

“Good morning, Macca!” John chirped happily, as he settled back in the bed, pulling the covers up his legs.

“John?” Paul responded incredulously. “Do you have any fucking idea what time it is?”

“Sure,” John replied cheerily, a rarity for him at so early an hour. “It’s 8 AM.”

“In Spain, maybe,” Paul grumbled, “But it’s fucking 7 AM here in England! Bloody wanker.”

“Now, now, Paulie,” John admonished merrily, shaking his finger at the phone. “You know you love being awoken by my voice.”

“Do you fucking think that if you keep saying that, I will eventually start believing you?” Paul retorted bitterly.

A cheeky smile on his face, John spoke reproachfully, “Is that any way to greet your boyfriend when he calls you from hundreds of miles away just to say, “I love you?”

“Oh gee,” Paul shot back sarcastically. “I suppose I should be  _grateful_  that me boyfriend calls me at fucking 7 in the morning to tell me that he loves me, when he’s off on some bloody romantic holiday with another man!”

“Paulie,” John sighed, massaging the back of his neck after moving the phone from one hand to the other. “We’ve been over this before. Brian is just a friend. And he’s lonely. What was I to say when he asked me to come on this trip with him? ‘No, I’m sorry but I can’t come with you because my boyfriend is a jealous idiot?’”

“Yes!” Paul exclaimed, angrily. “That is exactly what you should have said.” After a moment’s pause, he continued grudgingly, “Well, except for the boyfriend part, because he can never…”

“That’s right,” John replied somewhat triumphantly. “He can never know about this. So, I had to say yes. Well,” John paused, as he grudgingly continued. “It’s not like he would suspect anything, but still, I just couldn’t hurt the old guy.”

“Yeah, but you could hurt me,” Paul grumbled over the line.

John rolled his eyes, slightly smirking at Paul’s childish behaviour. “Come on, love,” John began in a placating voice. “You know it’s not like that. He’s only a mate.”

“A mate that fucking fancies you!” Paul burst out angrily. “Everyone can see it; I don’t know why you can’t.”

“Paulie, listen to me,” John said seriously, as he looked out the window, fingers gently running over the sheets that covered his legs. With a sigh, he looked down at his lap, taking in a deep breath before continuing. “Do you trust me?” he asked his voice low.

“You know I do, John,” Paul said with a tortured sigh. “It’s just…” the younger man paused, as he took in a shuddering breath. After a moment’s hesitation, Paul continued. “It’s just him I don’t trust. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. From the minute he saw you on stage at the Cavern, he’s been staring at you with that bloody hungry look in his eyes.”

“I know, Paulie. I know,” John replied with a sad smile. “But you just have to trust me, all right?” he pleaded, as he rested his head against the rough grain of the wood.

“I do, John,” Paul said, grudgingly. With a short laugh, he continued, “Look at me. Who knew I could act like such a git?”

John let out a low laugh, his eyes twinkling merrily. “Oh, I knew all along, love,” he replied playfully.

“Wanker,” Paul shot back, his voice losing some of its sullen edge.

John opened his mouth to retort, but the sound of the running water ceased abruptly. He could hear the rings of the shower curtain grating against the curtain rod as the transparent plastic material was pushed back, signaling a speedy halt to the conversation.

“Paul, love,” John said quickly. “Bri seems to be done with his shower, so, he should be coming out any minute now. I’ll give you a call tonight, all right?”

“Okay, John,” Paul answered, his slightly despondent voice crackling through the phone. “Since I’m awake, I may as well get up. Perhaps wake the other lads up, too. It’ll be fun to ruin their morning.”

Chuckling softly, John replied, “That’s my boy.” With a quick glance towards the still closed bathroom door, John whispered, “I love you, Macca. I’ll talk to you later.”

“I love you, too,” Paul echoed. “Bye.”

Just as the bathroom door swung wide, John hung up the phone and lay back in bed, pulling the covers over his head in an attempt to feign sleep. His eyes closed, John could hear the sound of Brian moving around the room, zipping open his suitcase and tossing various things inside the bag.

“John? John?” Brian whispered as he walked near John’s bed, touching the prone man’s shoulder lightly.

John slowly opened his eyes, and stretched languidly, opening his mouth wide in an over exaggerated yawn. He blinked slowly as he looked up at his damp manager, Brian’s hair curling wetly around the collar of his white terrycloth bathrobe.

“I thought I heard voices out here earlier,” Brian confided, in a loud whisper. “Were you talking to anyone?”

John fixed the man with a scowl. “You wake me up and then ask me if I was talking to anyone? Are you daft, mate?” John growled, eyes narrowing.

Brian’s face fell, a wounded look replacing the inquisitive one that had been on his face only seconds earlier. With a sigh, Brian walked away from the bed, and re-entered the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind him.

As soon as the door closed, the scowl melted away from John’s face, only to be replaced by a blissful smile as he lay back against the plump pillows and relived his short phone conversation, the sun cresting on the horizon and filling the room with its bright early morning light.

**February 1964**

The sky was a bright cerulean blue stretching out in all directions for miles and miles with nary a cloud in sight, despite being during the winter months. Birds flew lazily ahead, the white wings of the seagulls stretched out wide as they swooped downwards, dipping their beaks into the cool waters of the Atlantic Ocean, its colour mimicking that of the sky above.

Not that Paul would know whether the ocean felt as refreshing at it looked or if the sandy beaches would be warm underfoot, for he was trapped on a small hotel balcony, far above the warm sand and the icy waves. He looked down despondently, waving half-heartedly at the fans that screamed up at him from the beach below, their arms waving like mad as they fought for his attention. Paul smiled wryly at the messages they had written, “I love John” spelled out in large letters in the sand, carved into the packed dirt at their feet. The dark-haired man turned his gaze to the sky, closing his eyes as the sun warmed his upturned face. Slowly he felt himself relax, the nervousness and anxiety that had permeated his very being ever since he stepped on American soil slowly melting away, the tension finally slipping from his shoulders.

His relaxation, however, was short-lived, as the jangling of the telephone interrupted his reverie mere minutes later. Figuring that one of his band mates or someone else from their large entourage would answer the phone, Paul remained on the balcony, his hands tightening around the railing as he leaned back slightly, standing on the heels of his feet.

However, the phone continued to ring, and ring, and well, ring some more. With a growl of frustration, Paul turned around quickly and slid the glass sliding door open, the protests of the fans below following him as he entered the room, their wails cut short as he slid the door back in its place. Stalking over to the ringing nuisance, Paul practically ripped the phone apart, barking an angry “Hello?” into the receiver.

“Jesus Christ, Paulie,” the man on the other end exclaimed in a surprised voice. “Is this how you greet all who dare to call you?”

Hearing the familiar voice, Paul let out a tense sigh, as he flopped down on one of the hotel room’s twin beds, making himself comfortable as he greeted, “Hello John.”

“Any particular reason you fucking attacked me when you answered the phone?’ John asked amused.

“Sorry about that,” Paul replied apologetically. “I was out on the balcony trying to relax when the phone started ringing,” he explained. “I though someone else would answer the phone, but apparently no one else is here…” Paul trailed off as he looked around the room and leaning sideways as he looked through the door into the adjoining suite. “Strange that,” he mumbled half to himself.

Sarcastically, John shot back, “Well, I’m sorry that my phone call inconvenienced you. Shall I call back later?”

Sighing, Paul leaned back against the pillows that were stacked up behind him. “Oh shut up, you wanker,” Paul said. “You know your calls are never inconveniences. So stop moaning for a compliment because you’ve just gotten one.”

“I know,” John replied back cheerily, causing Paul roll his eyes in amusement. “So,” the older man continued. “Where is everyone then?”

With a shrug of his shoulders Paul responded, “I have no bloody clue. George and Ritchie were in here when I went out on the balcony but they’ve obviously left.” With a grimace, Paul continued, grumbling lightly “Didn’t even bother to tell me that they were going out.”

In a coy voice John asked, “You’re all alone then?”

“So it appears,” the younger man answered, as he lifted his legs onto the bed, stretching them out in front of him.

“Well, that works out quite nicely, doesn’t it?” John replied, his low voice coming over the line, shivers running down Paul’s spine. “So,” John said after a slight pause, his voice lightly seductive. “What are you wearing?”

Laughing, Paul exclaimed as he straightened up, “John! What if someone hears you?”

Carelessly the other man responded, “So what if they do?”

Shaking his head in amusement, Paul sat back slightly amazed at John’s nerve. “You’re mad,” he said affectionately.

“And yet you continue to love me,” John responded smugly.

That started Paul chuckling again, “Always bloody sure of yourself,” he said between laughs.

“Of course, and you wouldn’t want me any other way,” John said. His voice trailed off before he continued. “So, you never did answer my question,” he said with a slight grin in his voice. “What are you wearing right now?”

“What do you think I’m wearing,” Paul replied sarcastically as he looked down at himself. “Regulation white collared shirt, black skinny tie, and black trousers. It’s probably the exact same thing you’re wearing at the moment as well.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” John said haughtily. “I’m stark bollock naked.”

This made Paul sit up straight, his skin flushing slightly as the words registered in his mind. “Are you now?” he replied, voice a bit breathy.

“Oh yeah,” John’s bold voice came over the line. “I was about to jump in the bath. Care to join me, love?”

With a frustrated groan, Paul sat back, trying to rid his mind of all images of him and John together in the small hotel bathtub. “As tempting as that sounds,” he sighed, “You know I can’t.”

“And why not?” John replied, his voice low and sexy. “I won’t tell anyone, love. It’ll be our little secret.”

Laughingly, Paul shook his head in the negative. “I’m sure it would be,” he said smiling, “But it wouldn’t be a secret for long with these bloody journalists always hanging about.” Now in the midst of a full-blown laugh, Paul doubled over, one hand clutching his side as he tried to continue. “Can you imagine the headlines if we were caught?” he gasped from between laughs. “‘Two Beatles in Bath with Their Trousers Down.’”

“Well,” John said thoughtfully, “If it came with pictures I would definitely pick up a few copies for myself.”

Laughing, Paul replied shrilly, mimicking the voice of a fan. “Could you autograph one for me John?” he begged, “You’re so fab! I love you!”

John burst into giggles on the other end, barely able to speak. “Can you believe these bloody American fans, Paulie?” John asked disbelievingly, between snorts of laughter. “Trying to talk like us and fancying themselves in love with us after listening to a few fucking songs.”

Shaking his head in amazement, Paul voiced aloud. “It’s completely mad.” He paused for a moment as he tried to peer into the common room again, listening hard for movement or sounds of any kind. “You know,” Paul continued, somewhat slyly. “I really don’t hear anyone in the entire suite. Do you want to come over?”

“Why, Mr. McCartney,” John replied playfully. “Are you inviting me over?”

“That I am,” Paul replied with a smirk. “You can tell your friends that you ‘made it’ with a Beatle.”

A dreamy sigh soon followed. “A dream come true,” John whispered with exaggerated rapture. “I’ll be the envy of the playground.” With a short laugh, John continued, “I’ll be right there.”

“And this time, could you please give Cyn a better explanation as to your whereabouts instead of your usual brash ‘I’m going out?’” Paul pleaded.

“No need this time, love,” John informed Paul. “She’s not even here, went out shopping with Neil, I believe.”

“All right, good,” Paul said with a sigh of relief. With a quick glance at the clock he continued hurriedly. “Well, hurry up then. Who knows how much time we have before the others return.”

“My, my, aren’t we eager?” John teased.

“Oh, shut up, will you!” Paul exclaimed in a slightly annoyed voice. “Just get over here!”

“Okay, okay, just keep your knickers on,” John cried out. After a slight pause the older man continued, in a joking voice, “Well, until I get there anyway.”

Without bothering to respond, Paul hung up the phone, a smile on his face. Standing, he straightened the bed up a bit, stacking the pillows at the head of the bed as he pulled the ends of the sheets flat. Walking over to the sliding glass door, Paul peered down at the fans below, waving slightly as he pulled the blinds closed, the faces of the crestfallen girls no longer in view.

**September 1965**

Night had fallen on London, and a relative quiet descended upon Wimpole Street, Marylebone, London. Streetlamps gently glittered along the street, its light mingling with the distant illumination provided by the moon. The fans that normally congregated around the front door of 57 Wimpole Street were absent this late in the night, but would most likely return the following morning, due to this particular home’s famous inhabitant.

Out of the blue, the sounds of a fast approaching vehicle turned the corner, the hum of the engine shattering the relative stillness. As it rounded the bend, the car slowed as it approached the curb, parking in a tight spot between two other automobiles with expert ease. The driver’s side door opened, and Paul stepped out, keys flashing in his hand as he quickly locked door. With a slight bounce in his step, the young man bounded up the front steps and quickly let himself in, quickly glancing behind him as if expecting a screaming female fan to suddenly pop out of the bushes. With a sigh of relief, he entered the darkened home, promptly locking the door behind him.

Paul was alone that night, Dr. and Mrs. Asher having gone into the country to visit family, while Jane was touring with the Bristol Old Vic, traveling the continent as part of the theatre company. Peter, of course, was not expected in, having moved out of his parents’ home long ago. With a tired sigh, Paul shrugged off his jacked and laid it on a nearby chair as he dropped his keys on the hallway table by the phone, encountering a pad of phone messages, dutifully scribbled out by the Ashers’ maid. Most were from people he didn’t know, so, he left them unread, letting each one flip past quickly, the rustling sound of paper loud in the silence. After a minute, Paul smiled as he paused on one message, and quickly putting it down, he lifted the receiver and dialed a number as he held the phone to his ear.

“Paul?” the speaker on the other end greeted, voice somewhat anxious.

Paul blinked in surprise, his mouth falling open slightly. “Good guess,” he finally replied, an awed note in his voice.

“Where have you been?” the man on the other end exclaimed excitedly. “I’ve been trying to call you all bloody night!”

“Sorry, John” Paul apologized, as he leaned against the wall, head tilted to the side. “I was at the Bag O’ Nails with Mick and the lads.” Pausing he asked, “What’s up? Is there anything wrong?”

“Nothing,” John grumbled, “Except for the fact that you’re out every night having a bloody good time while I’m stuck in here.”

Paul let out a long sigh as he closed his eyes resignedly. “We’ve had this conversation before, John,” the younger man gently reminded. “I always ask you to come out with me but you can never be bothered to drive out to London.”

“Never mind all that,” John said dismissively. “The point of the matter is, is that I’m fucking bored!”

Rubbing his temples, Paul replied in an exasperated voice. “Whose fault is that?” When John didn’t respond, Paul continued, his voice now a bit more subdued. “Why did you call tonight, John?” he asked gently.

“I wanted to tell you about this new song I just finished,” John grumbled. “But seeing as how you were too busy with your high-society friends, I couldn’t play it for you like I bloody wanted to.”

“A new song?” Paul exclaimed in excitement, his eyes widening as he straightened up. “Well,” he said expectantly. “Are you going to play it for me?”

“I don’t know,” John trailed off sullenly. “The excitement of the moment is gone, so, I don’t know if I want to play it for you anymore.”

Rolling his eyes, Paul pouted slightly. “Please, Johnny,” he pleaded sweetly. “I’ll love you forever, and ever, and ever.”

“I should hope so,” John laughed on the other end, his surly mood dissipating quickly. “All right, I’ll sing it for you,” he agreed. “Bear in mind, however, that it’s not completely done yet, as far as the music goes. I was hoping you could give me a hand with it later.”

“Of course,” Paul replied. “Since when do you have to ask?”

“Ta, mate,” John responded, pleased. Voice now a bit nervous, he continued, “All right, here goes.”

The gentle sound of a guitar soon filled the line, the strumming perfectly complementing the lyrics that John sung faltering at times, as he wrapped his tongue around the newly written words.

_There are places I remember, all my life, though some have changed. Some forever not for better, some have gone and some remain. All these places had their moments, with lovers and friends, I still can recall. Some are dead and some are living, in my life I’ve loved them all._

“But of all these friends and lovers, there is no one compares with you. And these memories lose their meaning, when I think of love as something new. Though I know I’ll never lose affection, for people and things that went before. I know I’ll often stop and think about them, in my life I love you more.

After the last chords faded away, a steady silence took center stage. An almost teary smile stretched across Paul’s face as he attempted to speak, but an overwhelming emotion made it difficult to vocalize his feelings.

“Paulie?” John asked his voice uneasy over the line. “What did you think? Was it fucking awful?”

Clearing his throat, Paul finally spoke, “No, John,” he whispered. “It was beautiful. I loved it.”

A sigh of relief could be heard on the other end. “Thank god,” John said softly. “I… I…” he stammered. “I kind of had you in mind when I wrote it.”

A smile broke across Paul’s face. “Well, thank god,” he said teasingly. “I was worried that you had written it for someone else.” He paused slightly, voice getting serious. “Thank you, John.”

John coughed slightly before replying, “So,” he began slyly, “You want to come back to my place?”

Clutching his hear in an over exaggerated scandalized motion, Paul exclaimed, “Is that why you wrote the song? To get me in bed?” Hanging his head, he moaned, “I feel so used.”

“Did it work?” John asked hopefully.

With a smile, Paul answered with another question, “Is Cynthia home?”

“No, she and Julian are over at her mum’s for the week.”

Grabbing his keys from the table, Paul replied with a breathy, “I’ll be right there.”

“I’ll be waiting,” John said saucily, before disconnecting the line.

With a grin, Paul quickly hung up, as he pocketed the keys that still sat abreast the phone. Striding towards the door, he grabbed his coat and let himself out; retracing the steps he had taken not too long before. Taking the steps two at a time, Paul dashed towards the car and quickly climbed in. With a quick look in the rearview mirror, he pulled out of his parking space and zoomed down the street, the faint scent of exhaust and a pair of tire marks the only evidence of Paul’s having been there just moments before.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  A collection of phone calls and incidents throughout the years.

**September 1966**

A balmy sea breeze wafted through the dunes of El Zapillo, a beach in the small Spanish town of Almería. The gentle wind swirled around the beachfront buildings, gently caressing the whitewashed walls of the “El Delfín Verde,” a charming apartment right on the coast. On the ground floor of the apartment, French windows were opened wide, a gust of cool air gently moving the gauzy white curtains aside as it brought the scent of the sea with it, a tantalizing aroma straight from the Gulf of Almería. The sun shone through the open doors, casting a warm glow throughout the room, infusing the polished wood floors with delicious warmth. Leaning against the glass sat John, his posture relaxed as he stared out at the beach from behind a new acquisition, a pair of round, wire-rimmed granny glasses.

John smiled slightly as he watched his son Julian run across the sand, Cynthia following close behind as she laboured under his things; a colourful beach ball, a bright green pail and shovel, and an inner tube. The little sandy-haired boy ran straight towards a beachside vendor, jumping up and down in excitement as he begged his mum to buy him an ice. John laughed lightly as he watched Cynthia slump her shoulders in defeat, the petite woman dropping her baggage as she bought her son a cherry-flavoured treat.

“Daddy, daddy!” Julian yelled excitedly as he ran up to John, his tiny feet kicking up sand. Lips and tongue red, he held out his cherry ice, “Look at what mummy bought for me.”

“Good for you, Jules,” John answered with a smile, as he squinted at his son, shading his eyes with one hand.

“Julian! In the house now!” Cynthia called, the blonde trudging up the beach as she lugged around all of their things. “It’s time for your bath.”

Frowning, Julian stamped his foot petulantly, “I don’t want to take a bath!” he cried, throwing a mini tantrum. He turned his gaze on his father, “Daddy,” he whined. “Do I have to take a bath?”

Poking Julian gently in the stomach, he said, “You should listen to your mum, Jules.”

Crying, Julian ran in the house, a harried Cyn following after him. John turned his head slightly, staring at their retreating forms before turning his gaze back to the sparkling beach in front of him, a tired and unhappy sigh ripped from his lips.

Suddenly, the sound of the phone disrupted John’s unhappy thoughts, and with a hopeful look, he quickly rose and hurried to the phone, picking up the receiver before anyone else answered it.

“Hello?” John said into the handset, steadying himself with one hand on the low table.

“John!” answered the cheery voice on the other end, immediately bringing a happy smile to John’s lips.

“Paul,” John greeted, as he lowered himself in a white wicker chair, making himself comfortable on the soft padding. “How are you doing, mate?”

“I’m great,” the younger man replied, a smile in his voice. “How are things going in Spain? How’s filming?”

John grimaced slightly, “Spain is nice, the weather is lovely and all that rubbish, and Cyn and Julian seem to be enjoying themselves.”

“And the movie?” Paul asked, his voice eager for more news.

“Well, it’s great working with Dick again, but I don’t know…” John trailed off, sounding slight discouraged. He ran a hand through his newly shorn hair, before continuing. “I don’t think I’m cut out for the movies” he grumbled, “It gets fucking boring after a while, just sitting around waiting for your turn in front of the bloody cameras.”

“Well, as long as you’re keeping busy,” Paul replied, still sounding a bit too cheery.

For a minute no one said a word, John’s face falling at the prospect of staying mute and then having to hang up too soon.

“So, how are things in England?” John asked, wincing at the triteness of the question.

“London’s bloody London,” Paul answered, with a sigh. “You know, the fucking reporters have been hounding us here, always asking the same bloody questions, ‘Are the Beatles breaking up? Why are you all on holiday separate from each other? Are you never ever going to tour again?’ Bastards.” Paul complained angrily on the other end.

“Well, what did you expect, Paul?” John answered somewhat evenly. “Those gits have nothing better to do than worry about our bloody lives, almost as if they have no lives of their own.”

“I know,” Paul said with a defeated sigh. “It just pisses me off that they think that we have nothing else going in our lives and that we’re fucking lost without each other.”

John flinched slightly, Paul’s last comment hitting a bit close to home. Closing his eyes, John sighed, not wanting Paul to know that he was indeed fucking lost without him, without him and the other lads.

“Uhh,” John began, trying to change the subject. “How’s everything else? Is London still the same?”

“Yeah,” Paul began dismissively. “It rains most of the time, and when it doesn’t, it’s fucking cold. The weather is awful.”

Smiling hopefully, John asked quickly, “Well, if the weather is as bad as that, you could come down here for a bit, nice sunny beaches and all that. Ringo really enjoyed himself when he was here a few days ago.”

Paul sighed on the other end. “You know I’d love to, John,” he said with little remorse, “But I’ve just been so busy over here.” Without pause, Paul continued excitedly, “Did you know that George, George Martin that is, and I are scoring this movie, The Family Way? It’s been bloody fantastic, working with the orchestra and all that, actually composing a bit of music for a film.”

John smiled ruefully. “Soundtrack music for a major motion picture,” John said, somewhat grudgingly, “Composing scores and all that. Why Paulie, you best be careful, you may end up the next Richard Rodgers.”

With a laugh, Paul replied modestly, “Nah, I don’t think so,” he said. “I mean, doing this sort of thing once in a while is all right, but it’s not something I’d want to do regularly.”

A short silence descended upon the two, each trying to think of something else to say. When no subjects came up, Paul coughed politely on the other end, and John knew that it was the end of the conversation.

“Well, John,” Paul said, somewhat apologetically. “I have to be going, got some things to take care of in the studio today. Shall I call you later?”

Smiling sadly, John nodded his head slightly, “Sure, all right,” he replied, dejectedly. After a moment’s thought, he whispered, “I miss you,” eyes slightly misting over.

Paul let out a mirroring sigh. “I miss you too, love,” he murmured. “Come home soon, all right?”

John smiled, “I will,” he promised, as he slowly got up. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Paul echoed. “Oh, love?” Paul said quickly before John hung up the phone.

“Yeah, Paul?” he answered curiously, thinking that the conversation has ended.

“I love the new hair. It suits you,” Paul said shyly, a smile in his voice.

Smiling a bit, John responded, “Ta, Macca,” before disconnecting the call.

Sighing sadly, John hung up the phone, and walked back to the open French windows, leaning against the doorjamb, as he stared out into the beach, the sparkly blue waves reflected in the glass of his spectacles.

———————————————-  
  
  
 **June 1967**

The stately homes in the wooded “Stockbroker Belt” suburbs of London were quiet that early morning, which wasn’t entirely different from the state of the area during most of the day. The front lawns of important business men, and well, stockbrokers, were immaculately groomed, an expanse of lush green grass stretching out as far as the eye could see. The tops of impressive homes could be seen high above the treetops, their stately roofs towering above the branches, as if overseeing their domain. The sky, blue and clear, perfectly complemented the luxuriousness of the expensive, albeit stuffy, neighbourhood. Not exactly the kind of place one expected rock stars to inhabit.

Surprisingly enough, John was up and about that morning, puttering about the house and no longer lying motionless in the main living room, crammed into a small sofa in front of the telly. He was busy in the kitchen, fixing himself a pot of tea, granny glasses perched on his nose as he attempted to work the high tech appliances. With a triumphant look on his face, John soon had a kettle on the stove, steam pouring out of the spout once the water was ready. Pouring the boiling liquid into a cup, John let a teabag steep as he carried it to the living area, holding a plate of biscuits in the other hand.

Placing the plates on the table, John switched the telly on, switching from BBC to BBC until his eyes alighted upon something of interest. On the screen in front of him sat Paul McCartney in the midst of an interview, those wide eyes staring right back at him. Startled, John turned the volume up, as he sat forward, listening intently.

_I was asked a question by a newspaper and the decision was whether to tell a lie or tell him the truth,_  television Paul related, hands folded and resting on his crossed legs as he leaned back in his chair comfortably, his relaxed pose bellying the slightly exasperated expression on his face. With a hint of anger, Paul continued.  _I decided to tell him the truth, but I really didn’t want to say anything, you know, because if I had my way, I wouldn’t have told anyone. I’m not trying to spread the word about this, but the man from the newspaper is the man from the mass medium. I’ll keep it a personal thing if he does too you know, if he keeps it quiet. But he wanted to spread it so it’s his responsibility, you know, for spreading it, not mine._

With a sigh, John slumped against the cushions, his head leaning far back as he stared at the ceiling. “Oh, bloody hell,” he muttered to himself, with a roll of his eyes, no longer paying any attention to the television. After a few minutes of simply sitting still, John stood up and walked to the television and turned it off with a click, before leaving the room, his tea now cold and forgotten.

John paced the length of his ground floor, stalking through the rarely used rooms, each time ending up in front of phone. After the fifth time, he reached for the receiver with a growl, dialing a number savagely as he placed it up to his ear, glowering slightly as he listened to it ring.

Time passed and after what seemed like minutes, someone on the other end finally picked up.

“Hello?”

“So, I woke up early this morning and turned on the telly, hoping for some mindless entertainment,” John began, slightly out of breath and without preamble, launching directly into his diatribe. “And what should I see but your face, talking about that bloody drug issue again.” John paused, attempting to gather his thoughts and catch his breath.

A long suffering sigh came through the phone in the pause, “John…” Paul started in an even voice, but was soon interrupted by John’s second wind.

“What were you thinking, Paul?” John raged, as he started pacing again, the distance paced, however, was severely limited by the length of the phone chord. “Why must you always talk to the bloody reporters whenever they besiege you?”

“What the fuck was I supposed to do, John?” Paul yelled back, his voice loud over the phone. “It’s not like I had anything to hide! If I turned the bastards away they’d just think that I wasn’t being honest the last time and it’d just create more shite.”

“But why did you have to be fucking honest in the first place?” John shouted, his pace growing more hurried, his skin flushing uncomfortably as his eyes narrowed. “They had no business knowing about whatever bloody drugs you have or haven’t done.”

“Right,” Paul seethed venomously. “Because covering me face and closing door on them screeching ‘Leave me alone, I don’t do any drugs because I’m a good lad,’ would’ve been so much better,” Paul finished incredulously.

“At least we all wouldn’t be bloody attacked by the media and the CID if you had only lied about all of it,” John retorted angrily.

“Since when are you so fucking scared of the media and the coppers, Johnny?” Paul asked angrily. Pausing as if to catch his breath, Paul continued, his voice low and spiteful, “From what I remember, you were the one who got us into fucking shite a few years back with that daft “Bigger than Jesus” comment of yours and that had us fearing for our lives.”

“That’s not the point, Paul,” John spat out, as he stopped his angry pacing, his tense frame positioned in front of the phone. “The point is, is that George and I had been trying to get you to use LSD for over a fucking year and then suddenly, I see you on the telly talking all about it. Not once, but twice!”

“‘George and I,’” Paul repeated angrily. “Always fucking ‘George and I,’” Paul replied angrily, his voice shaking over the line. With a growl he continued, “‘Oh, Paulie, you wouldn’t understand because you didn’t experience it like we did.’ Or “Oh, you’re such a wanker Paulie, just one trip. George and I have been on dozens of them.’”

“Paulie,” John sighed, the anger slowly leaving his body. “Just…”

“You know what, John?” the younger man interrupted harshly. “It’s fine. It just doesn’t matter anymore.” In an overly sweet voice, Paul continued without pause, “I’m sorry that my tendency to open my fucking mouth has made your life a living hell. I’ll try not to do so anymore, good…”

“Paul!” John exclaimed desperately, “Wait! Just fucking calm down, okay?” With a sigh, John closed his eyes as he leaned forward, resting his forehead against the wall. “I’m sorry, all right,” the older man apologized. “It’s all just…” he sighed, “It’s all becoming a bit too much, you know. The media is down our backs fucking 95 percent of the time, and now that we’re not the “lovable mop tops” anymore they just keep sniffing around for more shite to print about us. Just gets hard sometimes.”

Paul sighed on the other end, “I know, John,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, too.” His voice lightening somewhat, he continued, “How about I call them back and tell that it was all an elaborate joke and that I was lying the whole time?”

John laughed softly, “Yeah, you go do that.”

Both men sighed, the anger and tension slowly draining away.

After a while, Paul spoke up, “Uh,” he said softly, “I have to take Martha out for a walk. She’s been circling around me desperately for the past 10 minutes,” pausing slightly he continued, “Want to come by afterwards?”

John glanced out the window, noting the light sunlight filtering through the trees, an idea popping into his head.

“How about I meet you at the park?” he asked out of the blue, surprising even himself at the words that came out of his mouth.

“What?” Paul exclaimed in a surprised voice. “You want to go out for a walk?”

“Sure,” John replied off-handedly, warming to the idea. “I could use the exercise.”

A snort could be heard over the line, “Yeah, John Lennon and exercise. I never thought I’d hear those two words in the same fucking sentence.”

“Hey!” John exclaimed indignantly. “I enjoy exercise. Just the other day, I ran out of breath walking from the couch to the kitchen to refill my teacup.”

“Right, I believe that,” Paul replied, laughing lightly. “So, you really want to meet me for a walk?” Paul asked, disbelieving still.

“Sure,” John answered. “Hampstead Heath, right?”

“Right,” Paul confirmed. “I’ll see you in a bit then?”

“Yeah,” John replied softly. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

With echoing farewells, John hung up slowly as he straightened up, moving his neck in a slow circle as he tried to work the kinks out. He moved towards the coat closet and grabbed a light coat, the early morning still cool despite it being June. Slowly slipping the coat on, John opened the front door, eyes squinting in the early sunlight as he walked to his colourful Rolls Royce. With a quick glance back at his home, John slipped into the car and started the engine, driving down the narrow lanes towards London.

———————————————-  
  
  
 **August 1968**

The windows of 7 Cavendish Avenue, St. John’s Wood, London were darkened, the only light in the home’s vicinity emanating from the street lamps that lined the lane past the gates, the small lights casting its yellow glow upon the home. The lane was eerily quiet, absent were the gaggle of noisy fans that usually sat by the gates, hoping to catch a glimpse of their object of affection as he zoomed past in his sage green 1965 Radford Mini Cooper ‘S’ on his way to and from EMI Studios. Similar to other times of the day, the impossibly high gates were shut tight, but despite their height, many a young fan had succeeded in scaling their tops, landing on the other side only to be escorted back through mere moments later.

Suddenly, the phone rang within, an incessant and high-pitched shrill that shattered the silence. It was quickly followed by boisterous swearing and a loud crash as Paul stumbled gracelessly into a chair on his hunt for the source of his daytime nighttime suffering.

“Bloody fucking hell,” Paul yelped as he tripped over a lone boot that lay dejectedly in the hallway. With a growl, the irate man pulled his foot back, aiming at the fallen footwear, only to encounter the wall instead as he went in for the kick. The resulting bellow mingled with the continuing buzz of the telephone.

Stalking over, Paul snatched up the receiver, growling an extremely vicious “Hello?”

“Fucking hell, Paul,” the man on the other end yelped in pain, Paul’s fierce greeting hurting the man’s ears. “Are you planning on ripping of me bollocks and shoving them down me throat?”

Eyes squinting as he turned on a lamp, Paul exclaimed softly in surprise, “John?”

“Yeah, mate,” John replied. Clueless as usual, he followed up with a “Is this a bad time?”

Rolling his eyes, Paul responded, “I was just…” he trailed off with a sigh. “What do you want, John?” he continued, changing his mind.

“Oh, well…” John hedged. A sigh coming over the end, he continued, “It’s over,” he said without preamble. “Cyn and I, that is.”

Paul’s eyes widened as he very nearly dropped the phone, “What?” he said, shocked after he regained his grip on the receiver.

“Yeah, the marriage that was over before it even began, is now fucking officially over,” the older man responded in an offhand manner.

“Bloody hell,” Paul swore softly. “Should I be offering my condolences?” he trailed off, sounding a bit uncertain.

“No need, mate,” John replied breezily. With a derisive snort, he continued on, “I mean, I was expecting this for a long time anyway. It’s a bloody relief, I’ll tell you that. You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this bloody sham to end.”

Eyes dropping shut, Paul braced himself against the wall as he whispered softly, “Actually, I do.”

John simply ignored what Paul said, moving onto his next question. “So, mate,” he began, “I’ll need a place to say, seeing as how I’ve been kicked out of my own house.”

Paul started, a bit surprised at the request. “Uhh,” he said somewhat uncertainly, going over the appeal in his mind. He paused for a second, his face taking on a hesitant expression before grudgingly replying. “All right,” he acquiesced with a sigh. “Do you need me to pick you up from anywhere?”

“Oh no,” John replied breezily. “Although, I would appreciate it if you’d open the gate.”

An expression of surprise flitted across Paul’s face. “You mean to tell me that you’ve been outside my house all this time?” he asked incredulously.

“Yeah,” John replied. “Been sitting in my Rolls, I’m on the phone I had installed a few years back.”

Shaking his head, Paul answered, “You know, you could’ve told me so earlier, and I would’ve let you in.”

“Right you are, Paulie,” John replied somewhat casually. “Always thinking, aren’t you, mate?” he continued with a slight sarcastic bite.

Sighing, Paul answered, “I’ll be right out,” shaking his head as he quickly lowered the receiver.

Paul quickly went into his room and wrapped himself in a robe as he slipped his feet into a pair of sandals. He quickly exited his chamber and descended the stairs, turning on the downstairs lights as he walked towards the front door. Not seeing his chauffeur around, and disinclined to awaken him so late, Paul quickly ambled towards the gate and opened it himself, moving back slowly as the psychedelically painted Rolls Royce drove past. Shaking his head, Paul followed slowly once he had shut the gate, coming up to the car just as the driver’s side door swung open.

“Ta, mate,” John said as he stepped from the car. “You don’t know how much we both appreciate this.”

Squinting his eyes in the dark, trying to make out any other possible figures, Paul asked curiously, “We both?”

”Yeah, Yoko and I,” John replied.

As soon as her name was uttered, the passenger side door opened with a squeak, revealing the diminutive Japanese woman, her unsmiling face obscured by the oft-parted heavy black hair.

A slightly disgusted look quickly darted across Paul’s face, but it was soon masked by one of indifference. He gave Yoko a short nod of acknowledgement before turning his back on the couple, motioning to them with his hand to follow him into the house. Once they were all inside, Paul quickly shut the front door, his trembling hand lingering on the latch before turning around, fighting to retain his composure.

“Well,” he began in a brisk tone. Gesturing towards the far side of the house he continued on, “The guest room is down here on the first floor, so, you two should be all right in there. If you need anything, just let me know.” With a sigh, Paul turned away, as if to walk up the stairs to his own room.

“Ta, Paul,” John replied, as he and Yoko started to make their way towards the room.

Despite his better judgment, Paul whirled back around. “John,” he called after the older man’s retreating back. “Could I talk to you for a second?”

With a shrug to Yoko, who fixed Paul with a distrustful stare, John motioned to her to go ahead without him before turning to face his mate, hands stuffed into his trousers as he affected a casual stance. “You wanted something?” John asked, a bored look on his face, eyes unreadable behind their glasses.

With a sigh, Paul leaned against the banister, “I was just wondering what exactly happened,” he said softly.

Shrugging, John looked down at the floor, the colourful carpet holding his interest. “Cyn came home from her trip with Magic Alex and Jenny and found Yoko and I in the living room.” With a smirk, he looked up, fixing Paul with a look, “Cynthia found Yoko sitting around in one of her, that is, one of Cyn’s dressing gowns. Needless to say, she didn’t take it very well.”

“Oh,” Paul replied faintly, closing his eyes briefly at the image.

Neither spoke for a few seconds, and with another shrug, John started to walk away, but before he got far, Paul called him back, his voice shaking slightly.

“John,” he said in a hoarse whisper, his eyes downcast. “Is this the end?”

Feigning ignorance, John fixed the younger man with a scathing stare, “What have I just told you?” he asked in an irritated voice. “Cynthia and I are over.”

Swallowing, Paul looked up, “Not you and Cyn…” he trailed off softly.

His expression unreadable, John stared hard at Paul. “I’m with Yoko now,” he said shortly, his voice impassive.

With a slight nod, Paul squared his shoulders, before looking into John’s eyes, his own gaze now cold. “Goodnight, John,” he replied, his voice devoid of emotion as he turned his back and ascended the stairs.

As soon as the younger man was out of sight, John’s shoulders slumped miserably, a flash of pain flickering across his face as he simply stood rooted to the spot. Minutes passed before John moved, his feet taking him to the base of the stairs. An uncertain look on his face, John grabbed hold of the banister, his grip painfully tight as he placed one foot on the first step, the desire to go upstairs plain on his face.

Just as John was about to take a second step, a faint, lightly accented voice was heard from the guestroom.

“Are you coming, John?” Yoko asked, causing John to drop his hand from the banister as if it burned him.

Closing his eyes, he struggled to get his emotions under control before answering, “I’ll be right there, Yoko,” and with a last look towards the stairs, John walked away.

From the second storey, Paul looked down at John’s retreating back as he stood at the railing, partially hidden in the darkness. Deathly pale and with a look of anguish etched into his features, Paul quickly turned away and walked into his room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

———————————————-  
  
  
 **March 1969**

Abbey Road was eerily quiet that sunny afternoon, quite a rarity for the usually busy studios. On any given day the distinguished white building was bustling with frenetic activity, people of all shapes and professions running out of offices, phones ringing off the hooks, and discordant melodies squeezing through the shut studio doors. Even the ever-present Apple Scruffs were glaringly absent; the colourfully garbed female fans having abandoned their post, not one of them standing outside on the sidewalk in front of Abbey Road, passing out flowers and hoping for a glimpse, possibly a word from those whom they worshipped.

Dressed in his usual brown fur overcoat, John wandered aimlessly through the building, bespectacled eyes peering into studios and offices, only to find them empty, or close to it. For the first time in over a year, he was alone, the Japanese woman who was forever at his side glaringly absent. Puzzled, John climbed the stairs to the upstairs offices, encountering two to three people on the way, and even fewer when he reached his destination. A confused look on his face, John suddenly bumped into Neil Aspinall, the younger man rushing towards the stairs with a preoccupied look on his face, manila folders of varying thicknesses held under one arm.

“Neil! Neil!” John called out as the other man brushed past him, exasperation evident in his voice.

Stopping in his tracks, Neil quickly turned around, a brief smile alighting upon his features when he caught sight of John.

“Hello, John,” the young man greeted quickly, as he turned back around, striding towards the stairs once again.

Perplexed look on his face, John called out again. “Neil, wait!” he cried as he jogged towards the busy man, placing a hand on Neil’s arm in an attempt to get his attention for a moment. “Wait a second will you,” John complained. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“Oh, just some CID bullshit,” Neil groused, brandishing the stack of folders in his hand. “I was at home looking through some papers, when I got a call from Pattie saying that that bloody Sergeant Pilcher just busted in with a team of men, a pack of dogs, and a search warrant.” With a harried sigh, Neil ran a hand through his swept back hair. “They found some 120 joints and have now taken both George and Pattie in for marijuana possession.” Taking a step away from John, Neil turned away, “So, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get going.”

“Fucking hell,” John sighed, with a roll of his eyes. As Neil was about to descend the stairs, John called out as he looking around the 2nd floor, John turned back to Neil, asking quickly, “Where is everyone then? Most of the office staff seems to have disappeared and Paul and Ringo have gone missing.”

“Oh, well, you know the ‘top notch’ staff we have around here” Neil replied sarcastically with a roll of his eyes. “I don’t know where Ringo is, but Paul is down at the Marylebone Registry Office.”

John raised his eyebrows, “For what exactly?” he asked, puzzled.

Going down the stairs, Neil threw his last words over his shoulder, “To get married, you git!”

Shock coloured his features, as the words registered in his mind. John quickly moved towards an unoccupied desk and sat heavily down in the soft leather seat, his eyes staring ahead of him.

“Bloody hell,” John whispered to himself, a shaky hand running over his face as he slumped forward, elbows resting on the desk before he buried his face in his upturned hands.

His shoulders shaking slightly, John remained in that position for what seemed like hours, however, it had been only minutes. Slowly, he raised his head, a lost look on his face as he looked around the empty office. Looking down at the desk he was sitting at, John spied a phone, one with a variety of buttons and lights, each button corresponding to a different line. John inched the contraption closer to him, and upon lifting the receiver, he started down at the phone in fearful awe, totally unsure as to how work the damned thing. For a few minutes he simply pressed the buttons and turned odd looking knobs, until finally he found an open line.

With an expression of accomplishment on his face, John quickly dialed a phone number, sitting back as it started to ring. Biting his lower lip, John listened to the steady sound on the other end, waiting for the other person to answer.

“Hello?” a feminine voice with an American accent answered.

With a sour look on his face, John barked out, “Is Paul in?”

“Yes, just hold on a minute,” the woman on the other end replied politely. “May I please know whose calling?”

“Just give him the bloody phone, will you?” John snapped, closing his eyes in annoyance as he rubbed his temples.

John could hear the woman calling Paul to the phone, frowning when he heard the younger man’s answering question.

“Who is it, Linda?” Paul asked his voice a bit distant.

Her voice slightly muffled, Linda replied, “Not sure, but he was a bit rude. I think it was John.”

A couple of seconds later, John heard the phone exchange hands, followed by a decidedly masculine voice answering, “Hello?”

Not bothering with a greeting, John launched in, his voice hostile. “So, I hear you got married today.”

Sighing, Paul replied, “I did. Linda and I got married earlier this morning.”

“Isn’t that fantastic?” John commented icily, his eyes narrowing as he sat up straight. “I suppose you’re bloody pleased with yourself.”

“If you mean, am I happy?” Paul asked sounding a bit confused, “Then yes, I am.”

“How lovely,” the older man spat, “Did you enjoy just fucking getting married without even telling anyone?”

Paul’s voice grew cold on the other end, “I wasn’t aware that I was supposed to share it with the bloody world, and for your information, George and Ringo knew. Maybe if you paid attention to the rest of us once in a bloody while you would have known, too.”

“Oh fuck off, Paul,” John shouted, a vein pulsing in his forehead as his skin flushed angrily.

“What’s this all about anyway?” Paul snapped. “I don’t understand why you’re calling me up suddenly; after god knows how long; only to fucking complain about my getting married. Was I supposed to ask for your fucking permission?”

Standing up, John started to pace, the phone’s long extension chord allowing him to traverse the entire room. “No, what this is about is you getting married to some fucking American cunt!”

Paul’s voice turned venomous. “Don’t you fucking talk about Linda that way again, Lennon. Or I swear to god I’ll…”

“Or you’ll what, Paul?” John retorted as he stopped in front of the desk, his hands shaking slightly.

A short laugh suddenly erupted from the line, as if realization had suddenly set in. “Oh my fucking god,” Paul muttered under his breath, disbelievingly. “I can’t believe it,” the younger man said with awe. “You’re fucking jealous.”

John nearly dropped the phone in shock, his mouth falling open as he attempted to shoot off an angry retort to deny the accusation, but, unfortunately, words failed him. Paul, however, not knowing John’s desire to speak, continued.

“You have no right to be jealous, John. No fucking right,” Paul said with a deathly calm voice. “You lost that right a long time ago. I will not have you ruining the best day of my life with your childish behaviour.”

John winced at the words, the sentence, “The best day of my life,” echoing in his head.

His voice softer now, but still dripping with venom, Paul continued, “Good bye, John.” And with a low click, he disconnected the call.

John let the receiver fall, not even bothering to hang it up properly as he staggered towards the large window across the room. His body trembling, John leaned towards the window, his palms flat on the clean glass, as he stared, his blank gaze trained on the street below.

———————————————-  
  
  
 **March 1970**

Wild winds blew across the Scottish countryside, sharp gusts with the scent of wildflowers sweeping the moor, and disrupting the lives of the multitude of plant and animal life. The sky was a stormy gray, a deep purplish-black intermittently splashed by a deep red, giving rise to the suspicion that the sun lay hidden somewhere in the background. Atop a gently rolling hill sat a quaint little farmhouse, the bright green shutters closed tight, protecting the inhabitants of the home from the fierce winds that continued to rage outside.

Paul however was unawares, holed up as he was inside the darkened farmhouse, sitting on the edge of a bed, an overflowing ashtray sitting on the floor beside his feet. Stray butts and ash lay carelessly on the side, ground into the surrounding carpet in some places, the flecks of grayish ash clinging to the bottoms of Paul’s feet.

Head in hands, Paul sat hunched over, unwashed hair spilling through his fingers and obscuring his face. How long he sat there in the dark was by now unknown to him, the days of his self-imposed solitude bleeding into each other. Paul rubbed a tired hand over his face, the smooth skin of his hand encountering the not yet accustomed roughness, heavy stubble covering the lower part of his face.

With a groan, Paul finally rose, moving somewhat unsteadily as he began to make his way across the room, one misguided step kicking the ashtray over causing its contents to spill across the carpet. Staggering across the floor, Paul winced slightly once his feet left the warmth of the rug, only to encounter cold tiles. As he slightly rubbed his feet together to generate a small degree of warmth, Paul soon reached his destination, the small antique phone that rested on a low table in the corner of his bedroom. With an almost reverent manner, Paul lifted the receiver, gauging its weight in his hand as he gazed upon the sleek black object, a look of uncertainty moving across his face. The sound of the dial tone was deafening in the quiet house, the incessant pitch never-ending. With blood shot eyes, Paul simply stared down at the object, as if expecting it to hold the answers to his problems.

Sighing, Paul hung up the phone and moved towards the bed, flinging himself upon the soft mattress as he stared up at the ceiling. Groaning, Paul turned on his side as he reached towards the nightstand, seeking a pack of cigarettes but only finding a bottle of scotch, a small amount of amber liquid splashing against the clear glass. Grabbing the bottle by the neck, he sat up as he took a long draught, the warm liquor burning a path down his throat. Tossing the empty bottle aside, Paul leaned back again, his head resting on his folded arms. Closing his eyes, Paul let out another sigh, his body shaking slightly from barely repressed emotion.

Slowly sitting up, Paul stared across the room, his gaze alighting upon the phone, silently debating its existence. With a shaky sigh, the harried man stood up, and with purposeful strides, he advanced on the phone, lifting the receiver in his hand as he dialed a no longer familiar number, cradling the receiver by his ear as it started to ring.

“Hello?” a voice answered within seconds.

Closing his eyes in pain, Paul started to breathe heavily, an anxious flutter moving through his body. He parted his lips to speak, but no words would come, his mouth hanging open ineffectually.

“Hello?” the voice queried again, that slightly nasal voice starting to sound annoyed.

Clearing his throat, Paul tried again, but once again the words wouldn’t come.

“What the fuck?” the voice on the other end swore angrily. “Who the hell is this?” After a minute or two of silence on both ends, the man over the line said softy, “Paul?”

Startled, Paul’s grip on the receiver tightened, his shoulders shaking slightly as he remained mute. Words flew through his mind, things he wanted to say, needed to say, but voicing them was harder than he ever imagined.

“I know it’s you, Paul,” John continued in an irritated voice. “Now, are you going to bloody say something or not?”

Closing his eyes, Paul finally found his voice, “I don’t know what to say,” he whispered.

“Then why do you keep fucking calling?” John countered fiercely, frustration inherent in his voice.

“I don’t know!” Paul yelled back, upset. “I just don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

“Well, you had better figure it out, mate,” John shot back, callously, “Because this just has to fucking stop.”

His eyes now open; Paul stared at the wall in front of him, an odd sense of calm settling over him.

“You’re right, John,” Paul replied unemotionally. “This has to stop. All of it.” With a sharp laugh, Paul continued. “You had the right idea, wanting a divorce from the group like you got from Cynthia.”

Surprised, John said, “Well…” he began with slight hesitation. “Good to see that you’ve finally accepted it.”

“Oh, I have,” Paul replied, his steely gaze fixed upon an insignificant point on the wall. “After all,” he continued with a harsh laugh. “I obviously don’t need any of you lot anymore, especially you John. I mean, after being unceremoniously being kicked to the bloody curb, it’s about time I moved on. Wouldn’t you agree, Lennon?”

Silence fell upon the two after Paul spoke, a grim smile on the younger man’s face as he waited for his former partner to speak. When John didn’t, Paul barked out another unpleasant laugh.

“Hmm,” Paul spat out, “I do believe that John Lennon is speechless.” With a snort he continued, “This is a first.” His cold bravado starting to fade, Paul hurried along, “Well, John. It was nice chatting with you,” he said bitterly. “Maybe I’ll see you around sometime.”

Not waiting for the other man to respond, Paul quickly hung up, his hands shaking as he dropped the receiver into its cradle. Covering his face, Paul sank to the floor, his body trembling violently as he curled into a ball on the cold floor, dry sobs wracking his body.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of phone calls and incidents throughout the years.

**May 1971**

The grounds of Tittenhurst Park, London Road, Sunningdale, Ascot had always been just that, a park. Before the recent purchase, the grounds had been open to the public for many years, its beautiful gardens dating back as far as 1763. It was a gardener’s paradise, the luxuriant lawns dotted with flowerbeds, bright bursts of colour in an all-green landscape. The crowning glories of the park were the innumerable species of trees which towered over the land, their branches hanging low under the heavy foliage. The park was sometimes likened to heaven on earth, imbibing the manor with a feeling of verdant serenity, instilling the belief that its inhabitants resided in paradise. And on that occasion, a rare sunny day with clear blue skies, that sentiment wasn’t hard to believe.

However, the atmosphere within the home was far from heavenly. Stamping through rooms, slamming doors, and basically throwing an adult-sized tantrum, John stalked about in a vicious rage. Not one word slipped past his lips, but his body language alone spoke volumes. His face was contorted into a look of absolute fury, eyes behind glasses narrowed into tiny slits. Every now and then a low growl would emanate from deep within his chest, but he didn’t say a word. Needless to say, the help had cleared out of the house and even Yoko was conspicuously absent that day.

Interestingly enough, a record played loudly in the background, and rather than relaxing John and instilling good, happy thoughts within him, it simply fueled this fury, for the songs on the LP were the source of it. Stalking through the general living area, John aimed a kick at a helpless piece of furniture, yelping in pain when the low footstool fought back. Glaring angrily at said object, John moved towards the expensive turntable, and with a quick motion he picked the LP sleeve up, and flipped it over, his eyes narrowing at the picture before him.

One beetle screwing another.

Normally John would be amused by such a message imparted by so cautious a person. He had never dreamed that his old mate would be so brazen or controversial. He was always the good one, the sweet one, the media’s darling boy, hardly ever making waves. As it was, John had to fight the amused smirk that threatened to curl his lips. With a growl, John scowled again, attempting to cement the angry look on his face.

Finally, the track that had been playing slowly faded into nothing, and a jangling piano intro signaled the beginning of the next. John started pacing once again, but once the lyrics registered in his brain, he stopped. He slowly lowered himself into a white-upholstered chair, leaning back comfortably against the cushions as he let the words wash over him.

_I guess you never knew, dear boy, what you have found. I guess you never knew, dear boy, that she was just the cutest thing around. Guess you never knew what you have found, dear boy._

I guess you never knew, dear boy, that love was there. And maybe when you look too hard, dear boy, you never do become aware. I guess you never did become aware, dear boy.

When I stepped in, my heart was down and out, but her love came through and brought me ’round, got me up and about.

Dear boy, dear boy, dear boy, dear boy.

When I stepped in, my heart was down and out, but her love came through and brought me ’round, got me up and about.

I hope you never know, dear boy, how much you missed. And even when you fall in love, dear boy, it won’t be half as good as this. I hope you never know how much you missed, Dear boy, how much you missed.

Closing his eyes, John sighed. Rage slowly leaving his body as he sat back and listened to the rest of the LP in silence.

Time passed, but how long it had been since John sequestered himself in the living room, LP cover in hand as he sat in that chair, was unknown. However, the light outside had dimmed considerably, and John now sat cloaked in shadow and silence, the album having ended long ago. Sitting forward, he ran a hand over his tired face, still contemplating the messages that the LP conveyed. Some of the songs pissed him of to no end, while others filled him with a feeling of sadness.

Flipping the cover to the front, John took in the smooth, handsome features of the man pictured, allowing himself a small smile as he thought back on a time when that face was the only thing that mattered to him, and if he allowed himself to admit it, still did. But as soon as the happy memories faded away, John quickly remembered the shit that that same man had been putting him through recently, him and the other boys. With a growl, John quickly stood up and stalked towards the phone, not willing to let the injustices that this album propagated go without speaking his mind.

Angrily, John snatched up the receiver and quickly dialed a number, swearing under his breath as he awaited an answer.

“Hello?”

“Well, hello to you too, you bloody bastard,” John snarled, his unoccupied hand balled into a tight fist.

“And so begins the dreaded phone call,” the man on the other end replied in a snarky voice. With a small laugh he continued, “Have to say I’m a bit surprised though, Lennon, I had been expecting to hear from you sooner.”

“Oh, sod off, Paul,” John shouted into the phone. “Who do you think you bloody are, recording songs attacking me on that piss-poor album of yours?”

“That ‘piss-poor’ album, as you eloquently called it, is currently as the top of the U.K. charts and is at #2 in the States,” Paul responded smugly. “So, what you think of the bloody album doesn’t seem to have much importance, now does it?”

John’s face grew dark, a flash of hatred shooting across his face. “Yeah, well,” John began snidely, “If you’re going to release second-rate, radio-friendly pop songs, then it’s not bloody surprising that people are buying it up like every other piece of over-hyped crap that gets released these days.”

A low intake of breath was heard on the other end, causing John to sneer to himself, pleased at his line of attack. A short pause followed, before Paul spoke again.  
His voice cold with palpable anger, Paul spoke calmly. “This coming from the sod who couldn’t get off his arse long enough to write a decent song for the last few Beatles albums. So, I guess you would know what ‘second-rate’ is, wouldn’t you, John?”

“Fuck you, Paul,” John growled, as he slammed his fist into the table.

“Yeah, well, fuck you too, Johnny,” Paul shot back.

John seethed silently as a tense silence descended upon the two. His body shaking in rage, John glanced at the LP cover, skimming down the track listing and growing angrier by degrees as he recalled the lyrics of each of the songs.

His eyes in narrow slits, John ground out, “If you don’t care about what I think and have such a fucking low opinion of me, what is with all of these bloody songs? Each one of them is a fucking thinly veiled insult!”

A moment of silence passed before Paul replied. “You do think highly about yourself, don’t you, John?” he snapped. “Who says the fucking songs are about you?”

“Oh don’t give me that,” John yelled, as he kicked the wall hard, wincing slightly as his toes slammed against the solid wall. “Look at that fucking ‘Too Many People’ song!  _Too many hundred people losing weight_? Or how about,  _Too many people preaching practices_? What the fuck is all that about?”

A loud sigh came over the line, before Paul spoke. “You’re reading way too much into the lyrics, John,” Paul replied with a short laugh.

“Oh, come on, Paul!” John exclaimed. “Who do you think you’re fooling? How about ‘3 Legs?’ With a deep breath, John recited the lyrics of the song, “ _Well, when I thought, well, I thought, when I thought you was my friend. When I thought, well, I thought, when I thought you was my friend. But you let me down, ho, put my heart around the bend._ ”

John paused, waiting for another retort, but none came. The silence stretched on, until finally John spoke again, his voice quiet with tightly controlled anger.

“And what about, ‘Dear Boy,’ huh?” John said, bitterly. “You can’t tell me that that song isn’t about me.” Softly, John began to sing, “ _I guess you never knew, dear boy that love was there. And maybe when you look too hard, dear boy, you never do become aware. I guess you never did become aware, dear boy…_ ” John trailed off slightly, before continuing with a later part of the song, still singing softly. “ _I hope you never know, dear boy, how much you missed. And even when you fall in love, dear boy, it won’t be half as good as this. I hope you never know how much you missed, dear boy, how much you missed._ ”

When Paul didn’t speak, John let out a low sigh, closing his eyes as he turned to face the large windows on the far side of the room, his back against the wall.

“You think that you can just air your fucking issues with me in a bloody album?” John said his voice still angry but now with a modicum of control. “Did you honestly think that you could fucking hurt me? Maybe make me realize that I made a fucking mistake?” His body shaking now, John paused for a second, trying to get himself under control, a mixture of anger and anguish coursing through his body. Closing his eyes, with his head upturned, John finally continued, “Well, let me tell you this, Paul, nothing you say will ever hurt me, nor will it ever change my fucking mind.”

Without waiting to hear what Paul would have to say, John quickly hung up. Trembling, he slid down the wall, his legs stretched out in front of him as he slumped low, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides. With an almost lost look on his face John looked out into the room, his blank gaze simply staring ahead.

**August 1971**

Sunsets in London were rarely a magical thing, the days usually too gloomy or smoggy to warrant much of a sight. Therefore, it was rare to find someone actually looking up at the sky during that time of the day, trying to catch the last few minutes of natural light. But once every so often, the inhabitants of that busy city missed a truly spectacular sight, warm amber and red streaked across the horizon before its colours faded into darkness. The remnants of sunlight were reflected back by the huge windows of important looking office buildings in the center of town, shards of light dancing atop automobiles and in the eyes of the random passerby.

At that particular moment, Paul walked into his home, unmindful of what was happening around him as he tiredly made a beeline for the bar in the main living area, throwing a couple of cubes of ice into a short glass and pouring a good amount of scotch over the clear cubes, the light amber liquid sloshing against the sides of the glass. Toeing his shoes off, Paul took a heady sip before walking across the room, and throwing himself into an overstuffed chair as he propped his feet up on a matching footstool, placing his glass on a nearby table.

Closing his eyes with a sigh, Paul leaned back, his head resting against back of the chair, his arms lying heavily on either armrest. Time passed and Paul’s eyes slowly started to close as he began to doze, his body finally relaxing as he fell into a light sleep.

Suddenly the sound of the phone rang through the quiet house jolting Paul awake, his body jumping slightly from its seated position. Straightening his back with eyes wide, Paul looked around somewhat disconcertedly, his mind unable to figure out where the sound was coming from, due to its still hazy state. Rubbing his face, Paul sat up, awareness slowly returning as he turned towards the phone, rising to his feet as he began to move towards it.

However, he was too late. The ringing soon stopped and was replaced by the loud whirring, signaling that a message was being left on Paul’s new answering machine. After a few minutes the whirring stopped, and Paul sat back down, unsure of whether or not to stand up and check the message or to remain seated, where he was most comfortable. After a few minutes of silent contemplation, Paul slowly stood up, and after taking a quick draught of scotch he walked the short distance across the room and pressed play, before quickly making his way back towards his seat.

The sound of the tape rewinding filled the room and with a click, the message started to play.

“Hello?” Oh fuck, he’s not home,” a voice said crossly, loud over the apparent din in the background.

Paul sat forward, a fearful curiosity on his face as the familiarity of the person’s voice registered. Taking a shaky drink of his scotch, Paul leaned back, gently rubbing the bridge of his nose as he continued to listen.

“What should I do?” the person on the machine asked, his query followed by a series of shouted answers. “Leave a message, John!” another familiar voice called out, his words slightly slurred.

“All right,” John shouted back to his companions, before turning his attentions back to the task at hand. “Well, Paul, how are you doing? Out recording more of your lovely tunes no doubt,” he said sarcastically, “Well, I’ve been doing the same today with a few close friends, no doubt you know some of them.” He then turned from the phone and called out, “Say hello to Paul, George.”

“Hello, Paul,” George called back, “Hope you’re just lovely this evening.”

Shaking his head in annoyance, Paul set his glass down on the table with a clink as he patted his pockets for a minute, looking for the ever-present pack of cigarettes. Not finding it, Paul sat back, frowning as the message continued to play.

“I did have plans on playing a new song that I had written for you,” John continued, “But seeing as how you’re not at home, I think I’ll just leave it as a message.” Voice perking up slightly, John said, “You ready? Well, here it goes.”

An acoustic guitar strummed to life, the opening chords of the song soon followed by John’s familiar voice.  
 _So Sgt. pepper took you by surprise, you better see right through that mother’s eyes. Those freaks was right when they said you was dead, the one mistake you made was in your head. Ah, how do you sleep? Ah, how do you sleep at night?_

You live with straights who tell you, you was king. Jump when your momma tell you anything. The only thing you done was yesterday, and since you’re gone you’re just another day. Ah, how do you sleep? Ah, how do you sleep at night?

Ah, how do you sleep? Ah, how do you sleep at night?

A pretty face may last a year or two, but pretty soon they’ll see what you can do. The sound you make is muzak to my ears; you must have learned something in all those years. Ah, how do you sleep? Ah, how do you sleep at night?

As the chords faded away, a burst of laughter sounded in the background of the message, intermingled with sparse applause and cheers. A grin apparent in his voice, John continued, “How do you like it, Paul?” he asked smugly. “I’ll bet you’ll never guess who I wrote it for. But you’re a smart lad, so, I’ll leave it to you to figure it out. Bye, mate.”

And with a click, John ended the call, the tape stopping abruptly.

A stricken look crossed Paul’s face, and he stood abruptly, hands shaking as he searched his pockets, eyes downcast. Finding a single fag deep in the pocket of his corduroy trousers, Paul lifted it to his lips, lighting it shakily with a lighter he found in the pocket of his jacket. Once the cigarette was lit, Paul walked unsteadily towards a closed window, parting the curtains as he peered into the darkness.

Inhaling the smoke into his lungs, the taste of nicotine calming him somewhat, Paul walked back towards the answering machine. With a sigh, he popped the cassette out of the machine. In the darkness of the house, Paul stood silently and stared at the small object as it rested in the palm of his hand, feelings of hurt and betrayal running through him. With a sigh, Paul turned back towards the window as he slipped the cassette into his pocket, taking drag after drag off the cigarette as the ash clung to the tip, brightly glowing embers the only light in the dark house.

**August 1972**

The door slammed in the quiet hotel suite, a loud thud that reverberated through the room. The common room was strewn with various pieces of luggage, a large suitcase overflowing with personal affects sitting majestically on the table in the middle of the room; toiletries, clothing, and other paraphernalia littering the carpet around it. The curtains were drawn closed across the windows that overlooked the Swedish city, not that there was much to see at that particular moment, the inhabitants of Gothenburg having retreated into their houses long ago. That particular night was a relatively quiet one, the streets devoid of activity. The door soon opened, and the hotel was no longer devoid of human life.

Walking tiredly into his hotel room, Paul kicked off his shoes, each sneaker flying in a low arc towards different parts of the room. Soon, a dark jacket and a colourful scarf joined the shoes on the floor, a trail of clothing following him around the room as he made a direct beeline for the mini bar. Kneeling down, he opened the small fridge and snatched up a bottle of cold beer, his fingers closing around the narrow neck of the bottle. He shuddered slightly as his skin touched the frosty glass, and quickly standing up, he kicked the door to the fridge closed as he hunted around the room in search of a bottle opener.

Sitting in the main living area on an ornate end table sitting dutifully beside a lamp, Paul soon found what he was hunting for and popped the bottle open as he lowered himself on an overstuffed sofa, his tired body sinking gratefully into the soft cushions. Leaning to the side he turned the lamp on, flooding the room with its soft light as he made himself comfortable, silently taking a swig of the frosty beer as he slowly closed his eyes. It had been a very long day, filled with piles of paperwork, frantic calls for bail money, and questions from gleeful reporters who were pleased to see an ex-Beatle put behind bars for possession. Not to mention dodging the arms of overexcited fans, all who had descended upon the Gothenburg police department once word got out that The Paul McCartney was incarcerated there. For now, Paul was content with silence, craving solitude all day.

The silence, however, was short-lived as the brash ringing of the phone soon sounded in the quiet room.

Groaning, Paul pried open one eye, glaring at the offending object that sat within arms reach. He silently willed it to stop, hoping and praying that whoever had dared to call at that moment would soon give up, but that wasn’t happening anytime soon. He even tried to ignore it, closing his eyes he covered both ears, the cold beer bottle resting against his cheek as he brought the hand that held it up to the side of his face. The condensation that dripped down the bottle simply chilled his skin, and with a gasp, he wrenched his hand away.

And through it all, the phone continued to ring.

With a moan, Paul leaned forward and placed the bottle down on the carpet before lunging for the phone, as it sat ringing on the end table that rested on the other side of the sofa. He wrenched the receiver up, sighing in relief as the ringing stopped, but then frowning as he looked down at the handset in his hands, not wanting to talk to whoever was on the other end.

Finally, with an irritated sigh, he placed the phone behind his ear and answered, “Hello?”

“I saw the greatest bit of news on the telly this morning,” a gleeful voice on the other end began without introduction, but seeing as how Paul recognized the voice at the first word spoken, an introduction really wasn’t necessary. “And imagine my surprise,” the voice continued as a glare descended upon Paul’s features, “When I saw the careful Paul McCartney, good citizen and friend of all, carted away to a fucking Swedish jail on account of possession. I was fucking gob smacked.”

Paul let out an angry sigh, “What do you want, John?” he ground out, his face fierce. “Or should I ask, how the fuck did you get my hotel number, instead?”

Brushing the question aside, John continued to speak, that note of fiendish glee still in voice. “Tell me, mate,” he said cheerily. “What was it like being in a Swedish jail? Did you have fun? Did you get a Swedish massage from a buxom masseuse or perhaps get force fed Swedish meatballs. Maybe you…”

“Jesus Christ, John!” Paul suddenly bellowed, his hands balled into fists. “Shut the fuck up, will you? I’m not in the mood for your fucking gloating.”

John simply laughed, the cold sound vibrating through the phone. “Bloody hell, Paul,” John replied snidely, “There’s no point in getting all wound up. It was just a fucking joke.”

“Yeah, well,” Paul shot back, his eyes narrowed. “Your sense of humour is fucking lacking.”

John let out a derisive snort, “Since when were you ever a good judge of humour?” John asked sarcastically, his voice biting through the line.

An angry sigh ripped from his lips, Paul simply ground out, “What do you fucking want, John? Because if you’re through, I’d really appreciate going back to doing absolutely nothing.”

“Why are you so bitter, Paul?” John asked, almost sounding concerned. “Did I do something to offend?”

Paul laughed bitterly, as he leaned down to pick up his discarded beer bottle, taking a sip of the now lukewarm beverage before answering. “Oh, come on, John, don’t play coy with me. The last time I heard from you wasn’t exactly a high point in my fucking life.”

Sounding slightly confused, John replied back. “What are you talking about, Paul?” he asked.

“Don’t fucking play dumb with me, Lennon,” Paul shot back. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“Are you talking about the fucking song I sang on your answering machine?” John replied in exasperation, realization dawning.

“What do you think, you bastard?” Paul shot back angrily.

A sigh was heard over the line, “Apparently you haven’t listened to the entire album then, Paul,” John said, speaking low. “Maybe you should give it another listen, particularly track number three.” Silence filled the line before another short sigh followed. “Goodbye, Paul,” John said shortly, before disconnecting the call.

Paul stared at the phone in shock, his mouth falling open as the sound of the dial tone filled the silence. With a shake of his head, the disgruntled man slowly lowered the receiver into its cradle, before standing up, nearly empty beer bottle in hand. He slowly crossed the room, stopping in front of the turntable, a stack of LPs resting precariously on the edge of the table. Setting the glass bottle down, he quickly flipped through the pile, glancing over the covers before stopping on the one he was looking for, a pale bluish cover with the picture of a bespectacled man, his face disfigured by a white haze. With a sigh, he slipped the black disc out of its jacket and placed it onto the player, lowering the needle before sitting down in a nearby chair. He skipped ahead to the third track, the music filling the room as Paul sat back, listening intently.

_I was dreaming of a past and my heart was beating fast. I began to lose control. I began to lose control. I didn’t mean to hurt, I’m sorry that I made you cry. I didn’t mean to hurt you; I’m just a jealous guy. I was feeling insecure; you might not love me anymore. I was shivering inside. I was shivering inside. I was trying to catch your eyes, thought that you was trying to hide. I was swallowing my pain. I was swallowing my pain._

The music soon faded away, and Paul slowly shut the player off, as he stared down at the cover silently. The lyrics to the song replayed in his head as he dropped the jacket to the ground before covering his face in his hands.

**November 1973**

In the relative quiet of a New York apartment, a television murmured quietly, the otherworldly glow from the screen washing over the interior of the darkened room. The blue light from the screen highlighted the stark white furniture; white sofas, white armchairs, a glass-topped white coffee table sitting atop a white shag carpet. The walls were white, the ceiling was white, and the frames on the wall and on the mantelpiece showcasing various photographs of a bespectacled man with his arms around a petite Japanese woman were white as well. The stark whiteness of everything gave the room a look of purity, an almost calming influence for anyone who stepped inside the room.

Sitting in direct contrast to the white sofa, sat John decked out in a black shirt and dark trousers, his figure popping out visually against the austere background. He was sprawled across the cushions, lying partially on his back against the armrest while his feet were propped up at the other end. Thoughtfully puffing on a cigarette, John gazed intently at the television, his eyes following the actions on screen. The 10 o’clock news was on, and John drank in the events of the day.

After a brief commercial break which showcased the best new breakfast cereal to start one’s day, three different laundry detergents that all claimed to be the best way to whiten your whites, and a short little preview for the movie American Graffiti that caused John to take notice, the news programme started again, the image of his scowling face quickly flashing across the screen.

Startled, John quickly sat up as the cigarette fell from his fingers and moved towards the television, twisting the knob sharply to the right to increase the volume. Quickly, he sat back down on the sofa, his eyes glued to the television screen as the newscaster began to speak.

_In entertainment news this week, ex-Beatles John Lennon, George Harrison, and Ringo Starr raised an action in the London High Court against Allen Klein and ABKCO claiming damages for alleged misrepresentation. Klein, in turn, responded with a counter action for lost fees, commissions, and expenses._

Groaning, John fell to the side and buried his face in the sofa, a loud noise of frustration sounding throughout the house. Soon the closing credits of the programme flashed across the screen, and with a sigh, John straightened up and moved towards the telly, shutting it off with a loud click. Reaching into his back pocket, John fished out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and after slipping one out of the box he placed it between his lips. He was in the process of lighting the fag when the phone began to ring. Sighing in annoyance, John tucked the cigarette behind one ear as he walked quickly towards the sound, lifting up the receiver as it neared its last ring.

“Hello?” he answered, a slight irritation creeping into his voice as he stuffed the lighter back in his trouser pocket.

“Well, hello, John,” a haughty voice greeted over the line.

Groaning, John leaned forward against the wall and banged his head against the white plaster in frustration before answering. With a growl, he shot back, “What do you want, Paul?”

“Oh, nothing,” the younger man breezily replied. “Just wanted to see how you were doing, if anything new developed in your life, in say, the past week or so?”

Eyes narrowing, John responded angrily. “Cut the shite, Paul,” John burst out. “If you’ve called to fucking gloat, then get on with it. I don’t have time for your bullshit right now.”

“What are you talking about?” Paul asked innocently, his voice cloying with exaggerated sweetness. “I wouldn’t dream about gloating. That’s not my style.”

John simply rolled his eyes. “Please,” he scoffed, as he fiddled with the cigarette that he had pushed back behind his ear. “You’ve been waiting to get one up on me and the boys for the past three years. It must fucking excite you that we have to sue Allen Klein now.”

“Come to think of it,” Paul replied thoughtfully. “I did hear something about that…” he trailed off.

Sighing, John ran a tired hand over his face, before shooting back. “Oh fuck off, Paul. Stop avoiding the bloody subject. Just say what you called to say and have done with it.”

A short laugh sounded through the phone. “A bit impatient, aren’t we?” Paul replied caustically. “I didn’t think you’d be looking forward to anything I’d have to say.”

His lips curling up into a sneer, John shot back. “I’m not. Over the years I’ve found that you never have anything of fucking value to say anyway.”

Paul simply laughed in response, his mirth bitter and slightly hurt. “Good one, Lennon,” Paul said sarcastically. “I’ll remember that one. Anyway,” he said before a slight pause, “Since you brought up the subject, how does it feel to be utterly wrong about that bastard Klein?”

Rolling his eyes, John grumbled under his breath. “And so it begins…” he trailed off angrily.

Ignoring John, Paul continued. “After all, I myself had seen him for what he was long before. Unlike you three,” Paul said bitingly, “I wasn’t fooled by his so-called brash charm. Too bad it took you lot three bloody years to figure him out and see that he was losing money instead of making it, or else we could’ve avoided a lot of crap.”

“Fine, you were fucking right,” John burst out, his hand curling into a fist. “So, can we end this fucking conversation now?”

“Oh, piss off, Lennon,” Paul shot back. “Do you know hard it was for me to sue the band to prove what I fucking knew? You have no idea how long I agonized over the decision…”

“Who fucking cares why you did it, Paul?” John barked out, interrupting Paul’s tirade. “The fact of the matter is, is that you did it! You fucking sued us because we wouldn’t go along with you and your bloody in-laws!” the irate man raged, as he started pacing in front of the phone, his face flushed with anger. His voice rising in degrees as his body started to shake, John continued. “Ever since Brian died, you’ve been trying to fucking take over and there was no way I was going to have your fucking family represent me. I may not be happy about how things with Klein turned out, but I’d do it again, just so you wouldn’t have the control! So, piss off!”

With a growl, John slammed the phone down nearly breaking the entire unit in two. His hands trembling uncontrollably, John placed the cigarette between his lips and attempted to light it, but the shaking of his body made the task nearly impossible. With another snarl, he flung the fag down and ground it into the floor, before stalking towards the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

**May 1974**

Soft light infused the interior of the lavish hotel suite, a warm glow alighting upon the simple, yet elegant, furniture, highlighting the very best that the Beverly Hills Hotel had to offer. Its large windows showcased a clichéd Hollywood view, graceful palm trees silhouetted darkly by the bright light of the moon, their fronds swaying gently in a cool summer breeze. The curtains were pulled back that night and the windows were pushed wide open, allowing the fresh air to circle throughout the room, bringing with it the faint tang of the Pacific Ocean as it mingled with the scents of hibiscus and rose as it wafted in from the lush gardens that surrounded the hotel.

Within the room, a tired blonde-haired woman was sprawled across a long settee, her eyes moving from side to side as she glared at the pacing man in front of her. She tried to get his attention over and over again, at times her hands waving in front of her when her voice didn’t distract him. Letting out a deep sigh, Linda finally gave up, watching silently as Paul continued to stride across the room in an over-excited manner, nearly bouncing of the walls as he muttered half to himself and half to his wife.

“I should,” Paul mumbled as he ran a hand through his hair, continuing to march up and down the large common room of the suite. “Or maybe, I shouldn’t.”

Sighing, Linda sat up, her head peering over the back of the sofa as she regarded her agitated husband. “For goodness sake, Paul,” she cried, exasperated. “Will you just sit down a second? You’re giving me a headache!”

Paul simply ignored Linda’s pleas as he continued to pace, his face now animated as he spoke a bit loudly, but still incoherently. “It was bloody fantastic. Playing together again after such a long time.” Finally Paul stopped and turned, setting his gaze on his annoyed wife. “It was fucking fantastic, wasn’t it?” he asked in a harried tone, as he addressed Linda.

With a roll of her eyes, Linda answered in a placating tone, “Yes, Paul, it was great. Spectacular. Amazing. Fucking fantastic.” With a sigh, she paused as she pleaded with her husband, “Will you please come to bed now?”

Waving her appeal away with a wave of his hand, Paul spoke as he began to pace again, “In a minute, Linda,” he said distractedly. Pausing again, Paul turned back around “Should I give him a ring?” he asked her, an unsure tone in his voice.

Linda flopped back on the couch with an anguished cry, a hand pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. “Paul…” she trailed off tiredly, her eyes now closed.

“I don’t want things to get fucked up between us again,” Paul continued on, interrupting Linda. “It took us so bloody long to for us to even have a decent conversation again,” he said, as he commenced with the pacing again. His voice uncertain, he continued to speak, “But then, I don’t want to push things, just let things develop slowly…”

“Oh bloody hell, Paul,” Linda burst out, unconsciously peppering her language with Britishisms, a byproduct of being married to an English husband and living in England most of the time. “Will you just calm down?” she asked in annoyance.

Again ignoring Linda’s plea to settle down, Paul turned to his wife, forehead furrowed in uncertainty. “Do you think I should I call him?” he asked her again.

Linda simply sighed in response.

With an echoing sigh, Paul sat across from his wife in an overstuffed wingchair, leaning forward with his head in his hands. He let out a drawn-out breath before peeking through his fingers at his wife. “I just don’t want to screw things up again,” he whispered, in a slightly frightened voice.

Sitting up, Linda began to laugh, her face crinkling into a huge smile as she regarded her husband. “Oh my god,” she exclaimed between giggles. “Just call him. Jesus Christ,” she continued with a shake of her head as she rose from her seat. “You’d think that you were calling to ask him out on a date from the way that you’ve been carrying on.”

Startled, Paul looked up at Linda, a nervous look flickering past his face as his eyes widened imperceptibly. Shaking his head quickly, Paul forced a smile to his face, replying hurriedly before Linda noticed anything amiss. “You’re right,” he replied with a nervous laugh. “I’m just being daft.”

“Well, call him or not, it’s your decision,” Linda commented sagely. With a tired sigh, she leaned down and kissed the top of Paul’s head before turning her back on the seated man as she began to leave the room “Well, I’m off to bed, good night,” she called over her shoulder as she disappeared into the bedroom.

Paul sat still and stared at the empty doorway for a few silent minutes, a look of intense concentration etched into his features. With a sigh he finally turned away, leaning towards a low table to pick up a nearly empty packet of cigarettes. Slipping one out of the white cardboard box, Paul lifted it to his lips as he lit it, dragging a stream of smoke into his lungs as he sat back, his gaze landing on the telephone. Nervously, he puffed away at the fag, pausing every now and then to deposit the ash that collected at the tip into a nearby ashtray. As the minutes passed by, the cigarette dwindled into nothing, and with a sigh, Paul ground the butt into the little glass dish.

Finally, Paul stood and moved determinedly towards the phone, a steely look on his face that started to waver as soon as he neared his destination. Hands shaking, Paul fished a crumpled piece of paper out of his trouser pocket as he lifted the handset and began to dial, glancing towards the numbers written on the scrap as he did so. Soon the sound of ringing could be heard over the line while Paul shuffled from one foot to the other as he chewed absently on a fingernail, waiting anxiously for someone to pick up.

“Hello?” a voice soon answered, sounding tired and slightly hung over.

“Hello, John,” Paul stammered slightly. Clearing his throat, Paul continued in a more steady voice. “How are you?”

“I’m doing just fine, Paul,” John answered, his voice brightening somewhat. “How are you doing, mate?”

Smiling slightly and his body relaxing, Paul replied. “I’m good. Sounds a bit quiet over there,” he commented. “Has everyone gone?”

Chuckling, John replied, “Oh yeah, I kicked them out a little while ago. Said I needed to get some sleep.”

His face colouring, Paul started to stammer apologetically. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he replied, a bit disappointed. “I should probably let you go then.”

“No, it’s all right, Paul,” John answered reassuringly. “A chat would be nice; it’s been ages since we’ve last talked.”

Relief flitted across Paul’s face at John’s warm words. Smiling softly, he lowered himself into a nearby chair before responding, “All right then. Tonight was crazy, wasn’t it?”

“You’re fucking right about that,” John replied with a chuckle. “The things people get up to with the right combination of drugs and drink in their fucking bloodstream.”

Paul chuckled softly, as he answered. “We could definitely attest to that,” Paul replied in a slightly teasing manner. Grinning, he continued, “That jam session was fucking fantastic though.” Paul paused slightly, before continuing softly, “It was almost like old times.”

“That it was,” John agreed, almost sounding wistful. “It would’ve been great if Ringo had been in town or George. Now that would’ve been something.”

Paul simply smiled in response, as John continued.

“Do you ever miss it?” John suddenly asked, jolting Paul from his reminisces. “The way things used to be?”

Paul was silent for a few seconds as he considered his answer carefully. Looking down at his lap, Paul finally answered John’s question. “All the time,” he whispered softly as he closed his eyes.

A short silence soon followed, the two men lost in their own thoughts. After a while, Paul finally spoke up again, clearing his throat painfully before doing so.

“I ran into Yoko a few days ago,” Paul began haltingly, as he gripped the armrest.

“You did?” John responded, his voice sounding slightly stunned.

“Yeah,” Paul continued, “She came over to the flat that Linda and I was renting in New York to talk to me. About you,” Paul finished after a slight pause.

His voice a bit miffed, John asked, “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

“I’m sorry, John,” Paul responded with a short sigh, as he tipped his head against the back of the chair, his eyes trained on the ceiling. “There just wasn’t a right time earlier.”

A slight pause followed, before John spoke again. “What did she say?” he asked, a hopeful note in his voice.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Paul spoke tightly, “She wants you to go back to her,” Paul continued after swallowing thickly, “She misses you.”

A shuddering sigh was heard on the other end, John’s voice heady with barely suppressed emotion when he spoke. “I miss her, too,” he whispered, “I want her back.”

Feeling his head spin slightly, Paul gripped the armrests hard again as he straightened his back, his eyes now gazing straight ahead. Taking a deep breath, Paul started to speak, “Then you’re going to have to work a lot harder. She wants you to court her, to bring her flowers and candy and ask her out on real dates.” Pausing Paul asked softly, “Are you willing to accept her conditions?”

“I’ll do anything to get her back,” John replied, his voice shaking slightly.

Sighing almost sadly, Paul slumped into the chair, sinking into the upholstery as he closed his eyes again, trying hard to get himself under control before speaking. “Good,” he whispered hoarsely. With a shake of his head, Paul let out deep breath before continuing, the pitch of his voice now more normal. “Don’t lose her on account of some bloody fight or misunderstanding. Fight for her. Don’t let her get away the way that I…” Forcibly, Paul stopped himself from finishing his sentence, the unspoken words, “Let you go” hanging heavily between them.

A heady silence fell between the two, until broken by the clearing of Paul’s throat.

“Just return to New York, mate,” Paul said softly, “Fix things between you two.”

A long sigh came over the line, “Thank you, Paul,” John said quietly.

A bit confused, Paul questioned, “For what?”

John’s voice came loud and clear from the other end, “For telling me this,” he said softly. “For helping Yoko and I out, you didn’t have to.”

“Well,” Paul began, just as softly. “I promised Yoko I would.”

Another silence descended between the two, but one not quite as fraught with emotion.

Suddenly, John’s voice came through, posing an abrupt change in topic. “What are you doing tomorrow?” he asked, curiously.

At a loss for words, Paul paused for a bit, racking his brain silently. “Umm,” he stammered, uncertainly. “Linda and I were planning on driving up the coast, perhaps spending a few nights in Santa Barbara before heading back to England.” Eyes narrowing as he cocked his head to the side, he questioned, “Why do you ask?”

“Come over,” John replied, hurriedly.

Blinking slowly as if in shock, Paul replied, “What?”

“Come over again tomorrow,” John replied, his voice growing a bit animated. “Spend another day in Santa Monica.”

Paul looked down, frowning slightly. “I don’t know,” he hedged. “I don’t want to intrude.”

His voice now excited, John continued. “Please,” he scoffed. “The house is going to be filled with piss-drunk and drugged out musicians anyway; so, one more isn’t exactly going to put me out.”

Paul rolled his eyes with a smile before responding, “Oh well,” he began sarcastically, “When you put it that way…”

“Besides,” John continued after a slight pause. “It’ll be nice to see you because god knows when I’ll run into you again. Please,” John begged, “It’ll be like old times.”

Smiling, Paul nodded in acquiescence as he answered. “All right then,” he said, “I’ll be there.”

“Great,” John replied back gleefully. “Just come over whenever you like, the door’s always open,” he continued. “Just don’t come over too early,” he cautioned light-heartedly. “I don’t plan on being up before noon, so, plan your arrival accordingly.”

Chuckling softly, Paul shot back, “Well, knowing your penchant for sleeping in late, I was already planning on that.”

“Touché,” John replied with a laugh. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, all right?”

“You can count on it,” Paul replied, a full-blown grin on his face. “Bye.”

Hanging up, Paul leaned back in his armchair, propping his legs up on a low table in the middle of the room as he folded his arms behind his head. He sat there for a few seconds, smiling to himself, before standing up and stretching languidly. With a deep yawn, Paul padded towards the lamps and turned them out, stopping to stare out the open windows as he shut them before pulling the drapes closed. Shaking his head to himself as he left the room, Paul switched off the last light, plunging the empty room into darkness.

**October 1975**

Harsh fluorescent lights beamed down from the ceiling, illuminating the hallway with an unearthly glow, their uncompromising brightness casting an unflattering light on all that it touched. Hard plastic chairs lined the walls, straight-backed and completely uncomfortable with rigid armrests that rose stiffly between seats, making it completely impossible for those who sat in them to receive any measure of comfort. Harried nurses, orderlies, surgeons, and doctors prowled the floors, rushing from one patient’s bedside only to dash to another’s. The hospital was fairly busy at that moment, even though it was way past 2 AM, patients’ families still pacing about the halls, stopping to gaze forlornly through windows or downing cup after cup of the brown sludge that passed for coffee.

The maternity ward, however, was another matter completely.

Only one man walked the halls, a light bounce in his step as he headed towards the nursery, his brown eyes twinkling behind a pair of round lenses. Arms swinging by his side, John moved faster towards the nursery, eager to get another quick look at his newborn son. Once he reached the large window, John looked inside, zeroing in on the small infant swathed in a light blue blanket, asleep like the other babies in the ward. John leaned forward, his palms resting against the smooth glass as he stared at the baby in wonder, a look of indescribable joy on his tired face.

He stood completely still for what seemed like hours, simply content in looking at his new son.

After a while, John turned away with a smile, and started to walk slowly away. He looked forward, glancing from one side to the other until he soon reached his wife’s room. Peering in quietly, he saw Yoko sleeping peacefully in the large hospital bed, her face slightly pale but relaxed. John quietly tiptoed into the room, and with a smile he kissed Yoko’s forehead softly before pulling the covers over her body. With another glance at his wife, John quietly left the room, shutting the door behind him.

In the hallway, John’s previous energy returned and he paced the halls with barely repressed excitement. Turning a corner, his gaze locked on a payphone, a smile lighting his face as he moved towards it, his walk determined. He nodded towards a nurse sitting at the front desk as he made his way towards his destination, receiving a warm smile in acknowledgement. In a matter of seconds, John crossed the hall, and standing in front of the phone he dug into his pockets, coming up with nothing. With a frustrated sigh, he leaned his head against the wall, his eyes closed in disappointment.

Turning his head, John noticed that the nurse had left her post and with a sly grin, he quickly darted forward, rounding the back of the counter as he threw himself into the unoccupied chair. With a quick glance in either direction, John reached for the phone sitting in front of him and after getting an outside line, he punched in a series of numbers, drumming his fingers against the counter. After a series of seconds, his call was answered.

“Hello?” said a tired voice, a huge yawn sounding directly afterwards.

“It’s a boy!” John squealed excitedly, the 35 year old man sounding like an overexcited young girl.

“John?” the voice asked incredulously on the other end. “What the fuck? It’s 7 AM!”

“That doesn’t matter, Paul” John replied breezily, waving his hand as if to bat away Paul’s complaint. “Didn’t you hear what I said?” he demanded, his fingers continuing to drum against the counter.

Yawning again, Paul answered. “Sorry, John,” he said sarcastically, “But being awoken early in the morning isn’t exactly conducive to my bloody listening skills.” Pausing slightly, he continued with a tired sigh, “What is it that you said, John?”

“It’s a boy, you git!” John repeated, his voice still high-pitched and animated. Leaning forward, he quickly glanced towards each end of the hall, trying to make sure that the nurse hadn’t returned.

Suddenly sounding awake, Paul exclaimed, “A fucking boy? Congratulations, mate. How are the baby and Yoko?”

Grinning from ear to ear, John settled back in the uncomfortable chair, switching the phone from one hand to the other before beginning to massage the back of his neck.

“They’re both great,” he related with a happy sigh. “Yoko was fucking amazing, though the screaming was definitely painful,” John finished with a grimace as he rubbed his head gingerly.

Paul laughed softly on the other end. “It never lets up either,” Paul said between chuckles. “No matter how many times you go through it, the outcome is always the same. Bloody screams that are followed quickly by a massive headache.” Pausing for a moment, Paul continued, “But I suppose as trade-offs go, it’s not so bad. After all, we don’t have a bloody baby being pushed out of us.”

A look of nausea crossed John’s face, “Bloody right about that,” he said with a shudder. “Watching it was hard enough, can’t even imagine that fucking happening to me.”

Paul continued to laugh, his warm laughter bring a small to John’s face as he joined in as well, the two chuckling companionably for a few short seconds. Once the laughter had died down, Paul spoke again.

“So, have you named him yet?” Paul asked curiously, his voice crackling over the transatlantic line.

“Yes, we have,” John answered proudly. “We’ve named him Sean. Sean Taro Ono Lennon.

“Sean,” Paul said slowly, as if getting used to the name. “I like it. Sounds almost like John,” he said, a smile in his voice.

“Well, obviously,” John replied sarcastically. “Wanted him to have a name that I suppose sounded a bit like mine, but wasn’t exactly the same. Don’t want to have a fucking John Lennon the II. It’s a bit daft, isn’t it?”

“Hey!” Paul protested indignantly. “I’m named after my dad!”

Smiling mischievously, John replied, “Exactly.”

Over the line Paul grumbled, “Git,” eliciting a small laugh from John.

Sighing softly, John spoke, his voice a bit far off. “Do you remember when we were younger,” he began, as his eyes grew a bit unfocused, as if thinking about an old memory. “Did you ever think that we’d be dads?”

“Never really thought it would happen for us,” Paul replied honestly. “Didn’t think it would be possible, given the circumstances…” Paul trailed off shortly, as John’s face flamed, his gaze lowered to the ground. Clearing his throat, the younger man continued, “But then Cynthia became pregnant, and well, it didn’t seem like a remote possibility anymore.”

“Oh fuck!” John exclaimed as he slapped his forehead in frustration. “I can’t believe I forgot to call Jules. He’s going to be so fucking disappointed that I didn’t call to tell him the news.”

“How very neglectful of you, John,” Paul tsked, “I can’t believe you forgot all about your other son just because you have a new one now.”

John glared as he shot back with a growl, “Piss off, wanker.” With a sigh, he looked down at his watch, “Well, it is still early in England now anyway, so, I’ll give him a ring in a couple of hours.”

“Early, ah yes,” Paul sighed. “I definitely know how early it is in England right now, having been brutally woken up at 7 in the morning!”

Chuckling, John retorted, “Stop your complaining, mate. You know you love being awoken by my voice.”

A smile in his voice as past conversations flitted to the surface, Paul snapped playfully, “Do you fucking think that if you keep saying that, I will eventually start believing you?”

John smiled softly at the memory, as he leaned back in the uncomfortable chair, his legs crossed in front of him. Suddenly, the faint sounds of footsteps walking down the hallway and approaching the front desk were heard on the quiet hospital floor. Jolted back to reality, John quickly sat up, his eyes darting quickly from side to side as he tried to gauge which way the sound was coming from.

“Oh shit,” John swore quietly. Turning to the phone, he addressed Paul hurriedly. “I hear someone coming, so, I’m going to have to go, Paul. I can’t let the hospital staff see me using their bloody phone.”

An amused note in his voice, Paul replied, “Typical. Even in a bloody hospital you’re up to no good.”

Grinning John answered. “Would you expect any less from me?” he asked, teasingly.

Paul laughed. “Of course not,” he replied, “Because I never really know what to expect when it comes to you, Lennon. I’ll give you call sometime next week, all right? See how Yoko and Sean are doing.”

“Sure, Paul,” John said in response, moving to quickly hang up the phone as the footsteps got closer. “Bye, mate.”

“Bye, John,” Paul echoed, before softly continuing, “And happy birthday.”

John smiled brightly as realization dawned. “It is my birthday, isn’t it?” he said in wonder “Same fucking day as me…” he trailed off as he disconnected the call. Turning quickly, John saw a flash of white and hurriedly dropped the phone as he vaulted to the other side of the counter, skidding across the floor in record time.

Landing in a heap on the ceramic tiles, John pretended to be tying his shoelaces when the nurse approached, keeping his eyes down until she was back behind the counter. Slowly, he straightened up and turned towards the nurse shooting her a wink and a grin as he walked in the opposite direction, strolling through the hallway and whistling softly, a bounce in his step and a grin on his face.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  A collection of phone calls and incidents throughout the years.

**December 1976**

The trees outside were bare, naked branches coming up from the earth like fingers reaching towards the sky. The odd burnished gold or earth brown leaf clung to the boughs, stubbornly refusing to let go and fall to the earth. The day’s last rays of sunshine hazily peered through darkening clouds, the clear blue sky of that early winter’s day slowly fading into an abstract of vibrant colours, heralding sunset. The first snowfall of the season had covered the ground in a light dusting of snow, its white powder giving the city a touch of magic, not yet the impassable mass of slush that would soon wear out its welcome. For now, the snow was a delightful sight, an old friend returning to the busy city after a year’s absence.

Sitting in an old leather armchair pulled in front of a rather large window, Paul watched the city, staring out from his hotel suite in New York City’s Plaza Hotel. His gaze flitted absently from one area to the other, his mind too preoccupied with other problems to enjoy the beauty of the landscape before him. Paul just gazed blankly, sometimes taking a sip of hot milky tea from a colourful ceramic mug that was cradled in his hands. A fire roared in a nearby fireplace, the flickering flames gently warming the room but Paul barely noticed, he couldn’t even remember when the fire had been lit, let alone who had lit it. He simply continued to sit in front of the window, much like he had since that very afternoon when he had returned to the hotel in an unpleasant mood, angry and hurt beyond repair.

All of a sudden, a phone rang in the suite, wrenching Paul from his stupor. Slowly he turned towards the sound, and with a sigh and a grimace, Paul placed the teacup on a nearby table as he slowly stood and walked to the phone quickly answering it on its last ring.

“Hello?” he answered tiredly, his voice dull and emotionless.

“Paul,” the person on the other end sighed in relief. “I’m glad you answered, I’ve been trying to call you since this morning.”

A hard look descended upon Paul’s face, as he closed his hand into a fist. “John,” he ground out angrily, “So, good of you to call. Was there anything in particular that you wanted or did you want to rail on me some more?”

A frustrated sigh was heard over the line, “Come on, Paul,” John answered with a deep breath. “You can’t still be angry.”

Barking out a short laugh, Paul answered sarcastically. “Mad? Why should I be fucking mad?” he asked, his eyes wide in a mockery of surprise. “You only kicked me out of your bloody apartment this morning and told me that I wasn’t welcome anymore. It’s not like that was such a big deal.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Paul,” John replied, his voice a bit exasperated. “You know I didn’t mean it like that!”

“Really,” Paul replied slowly with narrowed eyes as he leaned up against a wall, his shoulder digging into the white plaster. “Because from where I stood, saying ‘It’s not 1956 and turning up at the door isn’t the same anymore’ isn’t exactly the same as, ‘Welcome, mate. Glad that you dropped by.’”

“Oh, give it a rest, Paul,” John exclaimed. “How would you feel if you were taking care of a bloody crying baby all day and then suddenly someone shows up at the door expecting to be entertained? I just wasn’t in the best frame of mind at the moment,” he finished with a sigh.

Sighing, Paul hung his head before replying. “I didn’t come to be fucking entertained by you, John,” Paul said harshly. “I just wanted to see you, spend some time together.”

“I understand that Paul, but…” John trailed off, as if attempting to find the right words. “I just wasn’t in the greatest of moods when you popped by.” A long intake of breath was heard over the line before John continued. “If it means anything to you, I am sorry.”

Sighing, Paul shook his head, a slightly embarrassed look on his face as he ran a hand down his face. “Yeah, all right,” Paul replied softly. “I’m sorry, too.” Grudgingly the younger man continued, “I know I should’ve called before stopping by. I guess I just wasn’t thinking.”

“That’s all I ask for, mate,” John answered back, his voice now a bit lighter, “Just a call.” John paused for a second before continuing again, his voice teasing. “After all,” he said with a slight laugh, “If I don’t know you’re coming ahead of time, I won’t have a batch of hot scones and a pot of tea ready.”

A reluctant smile broke across Paul’s face, his stance relaxing slightly before replying back. “I heard about that,” he said with a chuckle, “You baking and whatnot. Bread, was it?”

“That it was,” John responded proudly. “I baked a lovely loaf a while ago and it turned out rather well too, if I do say so myself.”

Paul shook his head in wonder, starting to laugh a bit harder. “I never thought I’d see the day when John Lennon would become domesticated, staying at home to raise the kids and do the laundry and the cooking. If I was dead, I’d be rolling over in my grave,” Paul finished with a chuckle.

“And what’s wrong with that?” John asked, voice sounding indignant.

“Nothing at all,” Paul hurriedly assured him. With a smile, the younger man continued, “It’s just different is all, but it makes you happy and for that, I’m glad.”

“It is a lot of hard work, I have to say,” John admitted. “I never realized before how much work goes into raising a kid and maintaining a bloody home. It’s fucking mad.”

Moving away from the wall, Paul picked up the phone’s base and walked towards the middle of the room, sitting down on the sofa as he responded. “I know what you mean,” Paul agreed. “Having kids of my own now, I just appreciate all that my da did for Michael and me when we were growing up and all by himself too.” With a sigh, Paul leaned back as he closed his eyes, “I just wish I had told him how much it meant to me when I still had the chance.”

“Don’t fucking worry about it, Paul,” John said gently. “I’m sure he knew.”

“Yeah, well…” Paul trailed off with a tired sigh.

Both grew quiet as each man got lost in their own thoughts, thinking of what to say or do next. After a while, John finally spoke up.

“Do you want to drop by tomorrow?” he asked Paul hesitantly, his voice a bit unsure of itself.

Startled, Paul’s eyes opened as he sat up, looking at the phone agape. Bringing the receiver back to his, he asked, “You’re inviting me over?”

“Sure, why not?” John asked a bit defensively. “Can’t a bloke ask their mate over once in a while?”

“Well, yeah, of course they can,” Paul replied hurriedly, his brow slightly furrowed. “I just thought you’d be busy with Sean and all that.”

“Well, I could always lock him up in his room,” John replied flippantly. “That’ll get him out of my hair for a while.” When Paul didn’t answer, John broke in again with a sigh, “I was kidding, Paul,” he replied, jokingly.

Shaking his head, Paul started to laugh. “Sometimes I just don’t know with you,” he said between chuckles. He paused for a second as a regretful look passed across his face, before continuing. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, “But I can’t. I’m leaving for England tomorrow. Linda really wants to get back to the kids, as do I.”

“Oh,” John replied, sounding disappointed. “I didn’t know.”

“Sorry,” Paul repeated with a shrug. “That’s why I came by today, to see you once more before I left.”

Sighing, John responded, “When will you be back in the States again?”

Propping his feet up on a low table, Paul leaned into the cushions, his eyes getting a faraway look to them as he pondered the question silently. “I have no bloody clue,” he finally answered. “Not any time soon, I imagine.”

Another sigh was heard over the line. “Well, that’s fucking disappointing,” John mumbled. “Well,” he continued after a short pause, “Next time you’re in New York, you better fucking come by.”

Paul smiled slightly before answering, “I will,” he promised. “And next time I’ll be sure to call beforehand.”

John chuckled slightly on the other end. “You do that.” Suddenly, the faint crying of a baby could be heard over the phone, causing John to swear softly. “Paul, I have to go,” he said apologetically. “Give me a ring when you’re back in England though, okay, mate?”

“Of course,” Paul answered. “Be seeing you, John.”

“Bye, Paul,” John echoed before disconnecting the call.

With a sigh, Paul slowly lowered his arm and dropped the receiver in its cradle, as his mouth opened wide in a loud yawn. He leaned his head back against the back of the couch as he stared into the darkened room; his eyes closing inch by inch as sleep gradually overtook him.

**March 1977**

The studio was relatively quiet late that night, the lights dimmed and the control room empty. The warm room was filled with all sorts of instruments; a drum set took up one entire corner while various guitars of all shapes and sizes sat around the studio in black metal stands. Microphones stood at indiscriminate intervals around the room, their impossibly long chords snaking across the wood floor, a source of worry for those not quite steady on their feet. And in the middle of the room a black grand piano took center stage, gleaming beautifully under the low studio lights.

Sitting at said piano was Paul, one elbow resting on the keys while his hand firmly grasped the back of his neck, massaging the tense muscles as he looked down dejectedly at the row of ebony and ivory before him. Pencil tucked snugly behind his ear, Paul absently ran his fingers along random keys, a stream of piano notes filling the air with their disjointed melody. With a deep sigh, Paul looked down at the open notebook that rested on top of the grand piano, the blank pages seeming to mock him.

With a sigh, Paul pushed the piano stool back and quickly rose to his feet, steadying himself for a second by placing his hand on the piano as he tried to keep himself from toppling over. Once he had regained his balance, Paul paced around the studio, a preoccupied look on his face. The warmth of the room increased as he continued to stride across the room, deftly unbuttoning the top few buttons of his shirt as he looked about the room with an uncomfortable expression on his face. Looking up, he noticed a small grimy window high up in the wall across the studio. Quickly approaching the window, Paul kicked a small stool against the wall and climbed up on top of it before beginning to push at the dirty glass. Suddenly with a loud grating noise, the window burst open, a current of fresh air entering the room at once. With a satisfied look on his face, Paul hopped back down as he began brushing his hands together, getting the dirt and cobwebs off his skin.

Suddenly, the faint sound of a phone ringing could be heard, and with a slight jog, Paul rushed into the control booth and quickly picked up the receiver.

“Hello?” he answered breathlessly, as he dropped into a leather chair.

“Hey Paul,” the person on the other end greeted cheerily. “How are you doing, mate?”

A confused look on his face, Paul leaned back against the chair, crossing his legs comfortably before answering. “John?” he said, bewildered. “How did you know you’d find me here?”

“Oh, I called your house first,” John responded flippantly,” And Linda told me to try Abbey Road, and so I did. What are you doing there so late?” John asked curiously.

Sighing, Paul leaned forward tiredly, resting his elbows on the large control panel in front of him as he propped his head up in his upturned hands. “Not much of anything. I’ve been trying to write a bloody song,” Paul complained. “But I haven’t been having much luck.”

“Don’t worry about it, Paul,” John assured the younger man. “Knowing you, you’ll soon have a couple dozen of songs ready to record by the end of the fucking week.”

Shaking his head, Paul chuckled lightly, “Thanks for the vote of confidence, John,” he replied thankfully. Leaning back again, Paul continued, “So, how have you been? How’s Sean?”

“Everything’s fine,” John answered his voice slightly fuzzy as it crossed the long distance from New York. “And Sean is great, always getting himself into trouble as he stumbles into everything. Jesus Christ,” John swore. “I think I preferred him crying all the time to his walking all over the apartment. At least then he was stuck in one place, now I’m constantly having to worry that he’ll walk through the open door and tumble down the bloody stairs.”

Paul laughed softly, his eyes crinkling around the edges as he leaned his head against the backrest. “I know what you mean,” Paul replied between chuckles. “We had the same problem with Mary and Stella.

“Speaking of kids, how’s Linda doing?” John asked, a concerned note in his voice. “The pregnancy going all right?”

“Oh, she’s fine,” Paul answered, a smile on his face. “Nothing she hasn’t done before.”

The sound of John’s laugh could be heard over the line. “Keep this up, Paul, and you’ll have enough kids to start your own sports team.”

Laughing, Paul stretched slightly, one arm extended above his head, “Well, as it stands I am going to have enough kids for a bloody rock group,” Paul replied with a chuckle. Straightening up, Paul continued, a faraway look in his eyes, “Can you imagine that, John?” he asked, thoughtfully. “One of our kids getting into music? That would be fucking amazing.”

“It would,” John agreed. A slight pause followed before he continued in a contemplative voice. “But think about the fucking pressure that kid would be under,” he said, a bit bitterly. “All the bloody journalists would be trying to compare him or her to the fucking Beatles.”

Frowning, Paul answered quietly, “You’re right about that.”

“Fuck, I almost forgot,” John suddenly spoke, excitedly. “Did you happen to catch that show a few nights ago, “The Rutles? Or did they not show it in England yet?”

A sour look crossed Paul’s face before he answered. “Yeah, I watched it,” he replied a bit crossly, “With Eric and Michael from Monty Python, right?”

“Yeah!” John exclaimed. “Wasn’t it fantastic? Imagine that, a fucking mockumentary about us.”

An incredulous look crossed Paul’s face as he abruptly sat up. “You mean to tell me that you liked it?” he asked, astonished.

John’s voice came over the line, “Of course, I did,” he replied, sounding a bit disturbed. “Didn’t you?”

“I thought it was fucking terrible!” Paul responded heatedly, as he stood, shuffling towards the far end of the control room, getting only as far as the telephone cord would allow.

“You’ve got to be joking me,” John said in bewilderment. “How could you not enjoy it? It was bloody brilliant, the way they perfectly parodied all of us and our songs. And George’s little cameo was great.”

“How could you enjoy it?” Paul shot back, his face turning red in annoyance. “They portrayed Yoko as fucking Hitler’s daughter!”

A loud laugh sounded on the other end, “That was fucking hilarious,” John sputtered out from between laughs. “And Yoko thoroughly enjoyed it. What right do I have to get pissed off if she finds it amusing?” Chuckling, John continued, “Come on, Paul,” he needled. “You know there were some parts you liked. I know you and there is no way you absolutely hated it.”

A reluctant smile started curl Paul’s lips, as he rolled his eyes. “Well, some parts of it were rather funny,” he reluctantly admitted. Starting to laugh he confided, “I have to admit, a few of the songs were good. Like ‘Hold My Hand’ and ‘Cheese and Onions.’”

John continued to laugh, “And what about, ‘Ouch?’” he asked, animatedly. “That was bloody fantastic.”

“Linda loved the movie, too,” Paul continued after a slight pause, as he stopped and gazed out the control room window. “She wouldn’t stop talking about the damn thing.”

A short companionable silence descended upon the two as each were lost in their own thoughts. Turning towards the clock on the wall, Paul’s eyes widened in surprise, seeing how late it now was. With a disappointed sight, he spoke.

“Oh, fuck,” he swore softly. “I have to get going, John,” he said apologetically. I didn’t realize how fucking late it was, but I’ll call you next week, all right?”

“Don’t worry about it, Paul,” John reassured. “I should probably get going as well, Johnny Carson will be on soon,” he finished with a laugh.

“All right then, John,” Paul replied, “I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Bye, Paul.”

Echoing the farewell, Paul slowly hung up, a pleased look on his face. Pushing the chair forward, he exited the control room and walked towards the piano, scooping up a fallen jacket and his notebook. With a quick glance around the room, Paul noticed the still open window and quickly moved forward to close it. Once done, he shut the light off and exited the studio, closing the door quietly behind him.

**June 1978**

The Scottish countryside was awash in colour that cool October day, the sky clear and blue after a week of torrential downpour. The yellow flowers of stout gorse shrubs lay across the land, paired with lovely bunches of heather, small green shrubs dotted with bell-shaped purple flowers. The two plants created a lovely fragrance, the scent mingling with the fresh air. Sheep, both white and black, roamed the land, creating a most idyllic setting.

A sheepdog, white and shaggy, prowled the undergrowth, sniffing at mysterious holes and behind large rocks, searching for a lone rabbit or some such delectable prey. Watching, with a smile on his face, Paul sat nearby with his back resting against the wall of his isolated farmhouse, the warm wood penetrating the thin cotton of his shirt and warming his skin. An acoustic guitar rested in his lap, the glossy maple of the wood reflecting the sun, shining it back into Paul’s face and lighting up his handsome features. He could feel himself growing drowsy, the quiet and warmth relaxing his tired muscles and slowly his eyes started to close. This picture he painted was straight out of a postcard, a napping young man in paradise, guitar close at hand.

A few minutes passed when suddenly, the silence was disrupted by the ringing of a telephone, heard from within the empty house. His eyes blinking slowly, Paul sat up, startled. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he looked around him, his still drowsy state making it impossible to figure out what was causing that ghastly noise. After a few seconds of utter confusion, Paul stood up with a rueful smile and carrying his guitar in one hand he quickly entered the house, stumbling through the main living area as he made his way towards the phone.

Lunging over discarded toys and various music paraphernalia, Paul finally grabbed hold of the receiver, uttering a breathless “Hello?”

“Damn, mate,” a teasing voice responded. “It never fails; I always seem to call at the worst times, don’t I?”

Paul smiled as he shook his head, “Hey, John,” he answered while lowering himself in a nearby chair. “How are you doing, mate?”

“Oh, I’m doing just fine,” the other man answered breezily. “Hadn’t heard from you in a while, thought you had fucking fallen of the face of the earth.”

Rolling his eyes as he began to chuckle, Paul sat back as he replied, “Thanks for the concern, mate.”

“Anytime, Paul,” John said, a smile in his voice. “So, seriously, where the fuck have you been lately?” Pausing, the older man continued suspiciously, “You weren’t arrested again, were you?”

Paul let out an irritated sigh, before starting to laugh. “No, I haven’t been arrested, John,” he shot back sarcastically. “I’ve just been busy recording.” Sitting forward, Paul propped his elbows onto the table that held the phone, resting his chin on his hands. “I was actually at the Record Plant Mobile Studios aboard the yacht ‘Fair Carol’ in the Virgin Islands. Just got back a few days ago.”

“Well, look at you, mate,” John replied haughtily, “Recording on yachts and all that. Are land-based recording studios no longer good for you, Paul McCartney M.B.E.?”

“Well, I do deserve the best,” Paul replied in an equally affected voice, mimicry of the London’s posh elite. He started to laugh, when suddenly he stopped, a look of realization splashing across his features. “Wait a second,” Paul began with narrowed eyes. “How’d you know that I was up here anyway? No one but Linda and my secretary know that I’m in Scotland, and both are under the strictest of orders not to divulge my whereabouts.”

John cleared his throat loudly. “Well,” he hedged. “I may have sweet talked your secretary into telling me where you were. I can be quite charming when I put my mind to it.”

Shaking his head in resignation, Paul smiled to himself. “That I know for a fact,” he said softly. “I don’t think I could even count the many times that you were able to push me into doing something you wanted.”

“Well, then,” John replied with a chuckle, “You should understand that I am fucking irresistible, so, don’t be too hard on the poor bird. No woman can withstand my charms.”

Smiling softly, Paul replied in a whisper, “Nor can any bloke.” His voice barely heard over the line. Realizing what he had said, Paul cleared his throat uncomfortably before continuing. “So, why were you so eager to contact me, John?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

“Paul!” John exclaimed in amazement. “Have you no fucking idea what date it is?”

Startled at the outburst, Paul looked around for a calendar, but finding none he sighed into the receiver. “I can’t say I do,” he replied. Leaning back, he continued, “Enlighten me.”

“Jesus Christ, mate,” John groaned. “It’s fucking June 18th, your bloody birthday. I can’t believe that you didn’t even remember.”

A look of shock flitted across Paul’s face as he looked down at his watch, noticing the tiny calendar mechanism on the dial. Smiling slightly, he saw the date June 18th in the face of the timepiece, the look of surprise still on his face. “So it is,” he replied in wonder. “I can’t believe I fucking forgot.”

John snorted in reply. “Well, you are getting up there, you know,” he teased. “Fucking 36 years old, and you’re already losing your bloody mind.”

Paul narrowed his eyes as he shot back, “Yeah, we’ll you’re not exactly a youth anymore yourself, Lennon.” Smiling fiendishly, he continued. “What is it, 38 now?” he said impishly. “Two more fucking years and you’ll be 40 years old. Practically a senior citizen, mate.”

“Wanker,” John replied in a cross voice, a scowl most definitely etched into his face.

Paul began to laugh wholeheartedly, his head thrown back as guffaws erupted from the back of his throat. Between chuckles he asked, sounding a bit surprised, “Is that why you called? To wish me a happy birthday?”

“Well, you don’t have to sound so fucking shocked,” John replied, hurt.

The outburst of mirth dying down, Paul responded with a smile, “Sorry, I just wasn’t expecting it is all.” Pausing, he continued softly, “Ta, John.”

Embarrassed, John cleared his throat before speaking. “Uh,” he stammered. “You’re welcome, mate.”

Smiling to himself, Paul stood from the chair, and walked around the cozy living area, stopping in front of the window to gaze outside, the sudden brightness of the sun causing him to squint slightly. He sighed contentedly as his eyes drank in the beauty of his property.

“You won’t believe how lovely it is here, John,” Paul finally said with a sigh, “It’s so fucking peaceful and untamed, so unlike the pretentiousness of London. It is just so fucking great to come here and get away from all the bullshit once in a while.”

After a slight pause, John answered, his voice almost wistful. “You know,” he began. “I’ve never been to your home in Scotland…” he trailed off.

Startled, Paul cocked his head to the side, a surprised look on his face. “You haven’t?” he asked incredulously. Pausing, he seemed to think it over for a second, when realization swept his features. “You’re right,” he said in awe. “You haven’t. After all, I didn’t acquire this property until just before we broke…” Paul stopped self-consciously, clearing his throat before continuing. “That is, I didn’t buy this place until right before the band was about to break up.” Laughing uncertainly, he continued, “So, I suppose there really wasn’t a chance to visit.”

His voice a bit uncertain, John replied. “I’d like to see it someday,” he said hopefully. Quickly he added, “Not anytime soon, of course. What with Sean still so young and all, but maybe in a few years…”

Smiling, Paul leaned against the wall, still staring out the window, a wistful look on his face. “That would be nice,” he finally said softly. Bashfully, he continued to speak, “I would love to share this place with you.”

Coughing as if to hide his embarrassment, John replied, “I would like that.”

A silence descended upon the two, at times comfortable, but with its tense elements as well, both men thinking about the implications of the thoughts and feelings just below the surface. After a time, John swore softly.

“Oh fuck, Paul,” came John’s harried voice. “I think Sean just knocked something over.” With a disgusted voice, he continued, “I swear, sometime I wonder if kids are worth all this fucking trouble.”

Shaking his head slightly, Paul started to laugh. “You complain and you complain, but I know you love every moment of it,” he teased knowingly.

John’s soft chuckle came over the line, “You’re fucking right, I suppose. Well, I’ll have to get going then, mate,” he continued regretfully. “But I’ll talk to you later, all right. Don’t fucking disappear on me again”

Laughing, Paul promised, “I won’t, as long as you don’t torment my secretaries.”

“Bye, Paul,” John replied, before disconnecting the line.

With a blissful look on his face, Paul hung up the receiver, his fingers running across the smooth surface as he gazed downwards. His eyes bright and happy, Paul looked up and returned his gaze to the window just barely catching the last few moments of sunset, the muted colour playing across his face.

**December 1979**

The noise from the busy city filtered in through the closed windows, the distant sounds of a car backfiring, the loud murmur of chattering pedestrians, and the odd wail of an ambulance’s siren faint but always present. The lights of hyperactive billboards and traffic signals glittered brightly, and from a distance looked like the gentle flickering of light from fireflies against a pitch black landscape.

Sitting by the window in his sixth floor apartment, John was chain-smoking up a storm, a heady layer of smoke circling his head as cigarette butts littered the floor around his chair. Glaring out into the night, John’s foot tapped rhythmically, the worn leather sandals hitting the floor in four-four time. In the background, a song played on repeat, the LP spinning fast around the turntable, only to spin back in place to the opening bars of the same song.

_You want a love to last forever, one that will never fade away. I want to help you with your problem, stick around, I say._

Coming up, coming up, yeah. Coming up like a flower, coming up, I say.

You want a friend you can rely on, one who will never fade away. And if you’re searching for an answer, stick around, I say.

It’s coming up, it’s coming up. It’s coming up like a flower. It’s coming up.

You want some peace and understanding, so everybody can be free. I know that we can get together, we can make it, stick with me.

It’s coming up, it’s coming up. It’s coming up like a flower. It’s coming up for you and me.

You want a better kind of future, one that everyone can share. You’re not alone, we all could use it, stick around we’re nearly there.

It’s coming up, it’s coming up everywhere. It’s coming up like a flower, it’s coming up for all to share. It’s coming up, yeah, it’s coming up, anyway. It’s coming up like a flower, coming up.

And as such, the lyrics continued on and on.

Growling, John suddenly stood up and let the remainder of his cigarette fall, the glowing embers splintering as it came into contact with the wood floor. He stalked towards the turntable, his feet crushing the discarded cigarettes and ash under the sole of his sandals as he shut the player off with an audible click. Glaring down, he wrested the round black disc from the record player and pulled his hand back, threatening to throw it against the wall. He stood in the same position for a minute or two, conflicting emotions running across his face before lowering his arm with a sigh and setting the LP on the table.

Sighing, John stared at the record for a few silent seconds before turning his back and setting his sights on the phone across the room. With a determined gait, he moved towards it and lifted the receiver before beginning to dial a rather long series of numbers, transatlantic calls always taking twice as long to complete. After a series of clicks and buzzes, the sound of ringing came through the phone, John’s face taking on a slightly sour look as he awaited an answer.

“Hello?” said the voice on the other end, slightly faint as it traveled a long distance.

“Damn you, Paul!” John raged without preamble, his face flushing slightly as he bellowed into the phone. “How the fuck did you do it?”

“John?” Paul answered, his voice slightly surprised. His voice growing concerned, Paul continued. “What’s the matter?”

“Don’t try to change the subject!” John shot back, his hand balling into a fist as he continued to speak. “Answer the bloody question!”

Sighing, Paul replied in a weary voice, “What question, John?”

With a derisive snort, John started to speak slowly, as if talking to a child. “How did you do it?” he repeated in annoyance, each word perfectly enunciated.

Paul sighed again, shades of irritation apparent in his voice when he spoke. “How did I do what, John?”

“Coming up!” John shouted in exasperation, throwing one arm into the air.

Sounding hopelessly confused, Paul’s voice came over the line. “Coming up?” he asked, dubiously. With a sigh, Paul asked, “What are you babbling about now, Lennon?”

Rolling his eyes, John leaned against a wall as he moved the receiver from one to the other. “Your bloody song, you git,” John said, with a sigh.

“Oh, my song!” Paul replied, as understanding finally dawned. With a pleased chuckle, he continued, “You got the advance copy of the record that I sent then?” his voice sounding excited.

“Yes, I got the bloody copy you sent, you bastard,” John bit out, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Paul’s laugh sounded over the line, “So, that’s the ‘Coming Up,’ that you’ve been going on about.” Paul paused slightly, his voice guarded when he spoke again. “What about the song?” he asked suspiciously.

“It’s bloody brilliant!” John shot back, his voice slightly bitter.

A short silence descended, before a baffled Paul replied. “Wait…” he trailed off uncertainly. “You liked it?” he asked, his voice disbelieving.

“Of course, I liked it!” John exclaimed, with a roll of his eyes. His voice growing thoughtful, the older man continued. “I mean,” he began, “I had written you off as a decent songwriter long ago.” An answering snort interrupted John. “But then,” he continued after the disruption, “You come up with something like this and, well, it just fucking blew me away!”

“Gee thanks, John,” Paul bit out sarcastically. “Only you could turn a bloody compliment into an insult.” The younger man paused slightly, his voice a bit unsure when he continued. “You really liked it?” he asked, still unwilling to believe his mate.

John let out a huge sigh as he pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly. “Jesus Christ, Paul,” he muttered. “What do you think I’ve been saying this entire fucking conversation?”

“Sorry if it’s taken me a bit longer to figure out what you’ve been getting at, John,” Paul shot back. “But amidst the left-handed compliments, it’s taken me a bit longer to fucking understand you.”

“Well, apparently,” John replied, a tiny smile starting to pull at his lips. Resting back comfortably, he continued, “So, tell me how you did it.”

“How I wrote it?” Paul asked over the line. “Fuck, John,” Paul continued frustrated. “I don’t know, I just wrote the bloody thing.” Pausing for a split second, he continued. “I don’t know why you’re asking me, you used to be an old hand at this crap, too.” Paul reminded.

Sighing, John slid down, sitting on the floor with his back resting against the wall and his legs stretched out in front of him as he began to reply. “I know, but it’s just been so fucking long,” he confided with a moan. “I’ve probably forgotten how to write a damn song now.”

“Bollocks!” Paul cried in protest. “I know for a fact that you haven’t,” the younger man argued. “You’ve just lost practice. If you even gave it half a try, you’ll find it easy again.”

Sitting up as he folded his legs underneath him Indian style, John replied, suddenly excited. “You’re fucking right,” John replied. “It’s settled. I’m going to start writing songs again, and they songs are going to be fucking fantastic.”

His voice hopeful, Paul asked, “You’re going to start writing again? Are you sure?

“You’re damn right, I’m sure,” John shot back confidently. “You didn’t honestly think that I was just going to let this go, did you? Oh no,” John scoffed. “That song of yours is going down.” In an animated voice, John continued with a menacing laugh, “I’m going to release something that is going to give your bloody tune a fucking inferiority complex.”

Paul simply laughed in response, his voice light-hearted when he finally replied. “I’m looking forward to it,” he said between chuckles.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” John continued haughtily as he struggled to his feet. “I have some writing to start.” John paused slightly, a smile pulling up the corners of his mouth before continuing softly. “It really is a fantastic song, Macca.”

“Thank you, John,” Paul replied after a moment, sounding pleased and genuinely flattered.

“Bye, mate,” John said, his sentiment echoed faintly by Paul as he hung up.

Standing still for a few minutes, John stared across the room, a small smile growing into a full-blown grin before he strode confidently towards his bedroom. With an excited leap he bounded towards the bed and with one big step got on top as he moved towards the guitar taking it down from where it hung, untouched and, definitely, un-played for years.

Beaming, John sat down on the soft mattress and just held the acoustic in his arms, reacquainting himself with the feel of the smooth polished wood resting deliciously on his knee. Sighing happily, John ran his fingers along the frets before turning the tiny knobs as he began to tune the guitar.

**December 1980**

The hustle and bustle that characterized New York life was apparent from the minute one stepped out onto the crowded sidewalk. Cars of every make packed the streets, angered drivers blasting their horns and shouting obscenities in every language imaginable as they desperately tried to reach their destinations. Street vendors hawked their wares on street corners, dutifully ignored by the faceless pedestrians who were too preoccupied with their own lives to pay attention to another’s. Tall skyscrapers lined the streets, their plate glass faces reflecting sunlight up and down the busy boulevards. Amidst these modern giants stood a neo-Gothic apartment building standing at Central Park West and West 72nd St, a dignified structure whose architecture heralded back to more old-fashioned times.

High above the streets, the windows of a suite of sixth floor apartment were shut tight, its large glass eyes looking down on the innumerable faces below. Though the windows were closed, the smells and sounds of city life still permeated the spacious apartment, a dizzying reminder that a thriving world existed outside the thick walls. Sitting at a window seat far above the hubbub was John, his animated bespectacled face reflected back at him in the window, a phone held to his ear. Arms waved around wildly in front of his face, illustrating his point in a bodily manner.

“Fuck, Macca,” John exclaimed excitedly. “I have not felt this bloody excited about a new album in a really long time.” Pausing, as if to think, “Fuck, I can’t even remember the last time I was this bloody excited!”

Paul laughed softly on the other end, “Let me guess, then,” the younger man teased. “You’re excited?”

“Fuck, excited doesn’t even begin to cover it!” John replied as he waved his arm in the air. “I mean, these new songs are fantastic. I do believe that they top everything that I’ve done so far.”

“Well,” Paul responded warmly, “They must be pretty damn fantastic then, because you’ve released some great shite in your time.”

Laughing happily, John sat back comfortably, leaning against the wall as he looked down on the people below, smiling at the tininess of their size from far above. Sighing he turned back to the phone.

“Seriously though,” John continued, earnestly, the expression of his face open and honest. “It feels like a turning point in my life. I was so sick of the music business for so long, being told what to record and how to record it by a long line of wankers that I just lost it.” With a contented sigh, John closed his eyes, as he leaned his head back, “Now, it just feels amazing. I hadn’t realized just how much I missed making music until I got back in the studio again.”

Laughing, Paul replied back, “Well, you don’t have to tell me that twice.”

John’s face crinkled into a smile, as he shot back, “You’ve got that right, Macca,” he countered. “Fuck, how many albums have you released in the past ten years anyway? Ten?”

“Hmm,” Paul sounded, seeming to think it over, “About four solo albums and seven albums with Wings. So, yeah, quite a bit, I reckon,” he finished with a soft laugh.

“Jesus Christ, Paul,” John replied with a shake of his head, his voice threaded through with amazement. “I don’t know how you did it. But then, you were always the more productive one,” he said starting to laugh.

“That I am,” Paul replied cheekily. “So,” he continued after a short pause, “When do I get to hear this masterpiece of yours? Does an old mate warrant a private hearing or must I wait to hear it with the masses?”

“Well, it would do you good to wait in line at the record stores like everyone else,” John teased. “You’re getting soft, what with all that special treatment you get.”

“Please, Lennon,” Paul shot back, “Like you aren’t New York royalty yourself. Only the best weed for Mr. John Lennon,” Paul sniffed dramatically.

“Yeah, mate,” John replied cheekily. “That’s just how it is. Though, if you’ll recall, you’re the one who supplies me with my shite anyway!”

Paul let out a laugh and was soon joined by John, the two beginning to laugh in earnest. As he laughed, John looked into the window, startled by his reflection. He hadn’t looked or felt that lighthearted in ages, the laughter giving him a youthful appearance. His skin was flushed and his eyes were cheerful, the smile that stretched across his face making him look infinitely younger than his 40 years.

As the chuckles faded, a companionable silence descended between the two, it was both comfortable and welcomed, quite unlike the tense awkward pauses that had plagued their conversations at one time. After a minute, a serious and somewhat anxious look crossed John’s face, something clearly on his mind. Shaking his head, the older man cleared his throat before starting to speak, his voice low.

“Paul?” he said somewhat hesitantly.

“Yeah, John?”

“You know,” John began his voice soft, “If you really want to hear the new record before it comes out, you should come for a visit, maybe sit in on a few sessions in the studio…” he trailed off uncertainly.

“You mean come to New York?” Paul asked, somewhat surprised by the offer.

“Yeah, come to New York,” John repeated, starting to sound a bit excited as the short bout of anxiety faded. Sitting up straight, he stared ahead of him, his eyes wide. “Think about it,” he said voice growing stronger and surer of itself. “You could stay here, I mean we have plenty of room, and I could show you around New York,” pausing, John looked out the window, envisioning the places he could take Paul. “We could go to my favourite places, like this little café I always go to, the Café La Fortuna.”

Paul started to laugh, “I’ve been to New York before, you know,” he reminded John gently, a smile in his voice.

“I know, I know,” John said dismissively, waving Paul’s comment away. “But you need to see it with a real New Yorker!”

“A real New Yorker?” Paul exclaimed, aghast. “What? Are you a bloody American now? What of your mother country?” Pausing, he continued in a disapproving voice, “What would the Queen say?” Paul sighed dramatically. “How could you abandon Her Majesty just like that?”

“Well, Macca,” John began, jokingly. “Her majesty’s a pretty nice girl but she doesn’t have a lot to say,” he sang softly, eliciting a laugh from the other end. When Paul’s laughing faded away, John continued, “Seriously, Paul, you should come. It would be fun.”

After a slight pause, Paul asked, his voice even, “Would Yoko mind?” he asked.

Frowning, he looked around the empty apartment, his gaze falling on a family picture of him, Yoko and Sean. He stared for a moment before answering, taking a deep breath as he said, “Well, it’s not like I need her permission or anything, so, no, she won’t mind.” John paused for a moment before continuing a bit sheepishly, “Also, Yoko and Sean are going to be out of town for a week, in a couple of days anyway.”

Paul started chuckling softly, “So the truth comes out,” he teased. “John Lennon beholden to a woman and you know what?” he asked. “It never fails to surprise me.”

John glared at the phone before answering, “Oh, piss of Paul,” he grumbled, with a roll of his eyes. “So, you coming or not?” he continued, a bit irritated.

“Well, all right,” Paul replied with a huge theatrical sigh, “I’ll come, since you’ve begged me so.” As if thinking things over, Paul paused before continuing, the sound of rustling paper sounding over the phone “It just so happens that I have absolutely nothing going on for a couple of weeks, so, I’m all yours. Do with me what you will.”

A slightly awkward pause descended between the two as Paul’s words registered, John’s face flushing at the implications.

Clearing his throat, John spoke, “Well,” he said trying to sound light-hearted. “That works out well.” Standing, John walked towards a desk in the corner of the room, switching the handset from one to the other as he rifled through an open drawer. Taking out a small black calendar, John quickly flipped through the pages, before stopping on one with a grin. “Well, Yoko is scheduled to leave December 10th, so, is that all right?” John said as he turned back to the phone.

More rustling of paper followed. “Yeah, mate,” Paul replied. “That’s perfect.”

Looking at the clock on the mantel, John grimaced slightly. “Well, mate,” John said regretfully, “I have to be going now, but I’ll see you in a couple of days?” he asked hopefully.

Paul’s voice crackled slightly over the transatlantic line, “Yeah, John. I’ll give you a ring in a few days when I have my travel details finalized.”

“All right,” John replied with a slight smile. “Be seeing you, Paulie,” the old nickname falling from his lips off its own accord.

“Bye, John,” Paul said, his voice sounding slightly pleased before disconnecting the call.

A huge grin on his face, John walked over to the phone and lowered the receiver into its cradle, a low click sounding in the room. He stared down for a few moments before walking back towards the window seat, grabbing a pack of cigarettes from a nearby table on the way. Leaning against the wall with one foot propped up on the cushion; John slipped a cigarette out of the slightly crumpled box and slipped it between his lips, lighting it deftly. He took a drag of the fag, inhaling the smoke into his lungs before expelling it from his nose, the grayish smoke curling around his head. Still smiling, John looked through the window, gazing into the city below, a smile on his face.


End file.
